


LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, 




CNITED STATES OF AMERICA, 











ivt: 






i.*U . .' ^* ■ •, • • I - ■ 

t v < ‘ :. . . -.: •• ^ ,--. '■ 

, *•' \j.' fj •J14l«.» • - r • 


i- ^ '•^■s , . V . 


I 0 


.<. .1 '• , S', ' 

* ' :i*:- 


/ 1 




'• « n 


■ t 


k;v.^ -s 



*. < 



;•/ 


* L. 


t k 


I ^ 


. •'> *' kv 

. •- ' - . r 


r \ I',' 





:• 


m-. ■• 


'^f 

f 


‘ •• 

• 1 »,.■’ 

•' ■»* , . ■ 

■ ''7 

• • 

’ 

4 

. ■ •/•*■. 

M N 

1 • 

• t 

- 

1, t 





*f 


v^:Vr 


I . 


J J.t4 W ■ . IVW. • 





I ^ 





t 


'••r 'I* .* ' 






• I 




r.. 







« V 




7.‘y M'v' i j 

1 * ' X .' •■< 1 ? '<1 
















t 


« • 



4 * 


» •* r’ 


• t 


H ' 

^'-V^.' ■ r 

jv.,x, 

i<-^- ' 



^0 


^ 0 



f 


.v- 


7 

w* 


'‘^# • 


*• 


^ • 



t 


% 


0 




> 




« 




/ 










Nsao 


50 CIS. 



GVELISTS SERIES 


ISSUED VVtEKLY-ANNUAl SUBSCRIPTION 
tS^DQ 


't ^JOHHWlOVCLL^ t 


girrmev /rrniToreice^ir.Yi 
MJ££Maxui6iMAaMara/t, 

aec.^euBaa 


cm 


CZD 


CD 


'ISOWORTtt 
C0R<MISSlOM PL. 






THE CELEBRATED 


PIANOS 


SOBMEB 


The SOHMER PIANOS 
are used in the follow- 
ing Institutions. 

Convent of the Sacred 
Heart, Manhattan- 
vUle, N. Y. 

N. Y. College of Mxisic. 
Vogt’s Conservatory of 
Music. 

Arnold’s Conservatory 
of Music, Brooklyn. 
Philadelphia Conser- 
vatory of Music. 

Villa de Sales Convent, 
Long Island. 

N. Y. Normal Conser- 
■' vatory of Music. 

Villa klaria Convent, 
Montreal. 

Vassal’ College, Pough- 
keepsie. 

And most all the lead- 
ing first-class theatres 
in NEW YOEK and 
BROOKLYN. 


THE WONDEEFl 


BIJOU GRAND 


(lately patented) 
SOHMER & CO., 1 
Smallest Grand e 
manufactured, len; 
only 5 ft. 6 in., 1 
created a sensat 
among musicians i 
artists. The mu: 
loving public will f 
it in their interest 
call at the wareroo 
of SOHMER & C 
and examine the ^ 
ious styles of Gran 
Uprights, and Squ 
Pianos. The origi 
and beautiful desi; 
and improvementh 
Grands and Upripi 
Pianos deserve sp 
ial attention. 


Are at present the Most Popular and Preferred hy the Leading Artisi 


Nos. 149 TO 155 EAST 14th STREET, NEW YORK. 


LYDIA E. PINKHAM’S 


VEGETABLE COMPOUNl 


IS A POSITIVE CURE 


For all those painful Comjilaints ar 
Wealinesses so common to our he 


female population. 

It Will cure entirely the worst fc of Perr 
Complaints, all Ovarian troubles .^flamiuati 
Ulceration, Falling and Displacements of 
Vv^omb and the consequent Spinal Weakness, ;j 
13 particularly adapted to the Change of Life. 

It will dissolve and expel Tumors from 
uterus in an early stage of development. The i 
dency to cancerous humors there is checked \ 
speedily by its use. it removes faintness, fli 
lency, destroys all craving for stimulants, 
relieves weakness of the stomach. It cures B1 
Ing, Headaches, Nervous Prostration, General 
bility. Sleeplessness, Depression, and IndtgesticJ 
That feeling cf bearing down, causing p 
weight and backache, is always permanently ci 
by its use. 

It will at all times and under all clrcumstai 
act in harmony with the laws that govern 
female system. For the cure of Kidney Compla 
of either sex, this Compound Is unsurpassed. : 

Lydia E. Pinkham’s Vegetable Compound is prepared at Lynn, Mass. Price, $ 
Six bottles for $5.00. Sent by mall in the form of Pills, also in the form of Lozenges, on rec 
of price, $1.00 per box, for either. Send for pamphlet. All letters of inquiry promptly 
swered. Address as above. < 


IN THE TOILS 

OR 

Martyrs of the Latter Days 


MRS. A. G. PADDOCK 

li 





NEW YORK 

JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY 
' 150 Worth Street, cor. of ]\Iission Place 






^ -v 

■v' 


Copyright, 1890. 

BY 

Mrs. CORNELIA I’ADDOCK. 


PREFACE. 


The characters of the story herewith presented to the 
reader, are taken from actual life. The incidents are such 
as have fallen under the writer’s own observation, or have 
formed a part of the experience of her neighbors and friends. 
To the natural question whether such a state of things as is 
depicted in the book still exists I reply: 

In Salt Lake, and in all the large towns that have felt the 
pressure of outside civilization, there have been many and 
great changes for the better, but in the remote settlements 
the authority of the Mormon Church is still supreme. There 
are whole counties in the Territory in which there are not 
a dozen resident Gentiles, and in these counties any crime 
that is “counselled” by the Church leaders, may be perpe- 
trated without fear of punishment. 

“ Polygamy is a dead issue in Utah.” 

This is the testimony of John T. Caine, the Mormon 
Delegate to Congress. Let us see how his assertion har- 
monizes with existing facts.. 

The Penitentiary is crowded to-day with men who have 
been sent there for continuing to live in polygamy in defiance 
of the law, and many of the convicts, after serving out their 
six months’ sentence, go home and resume their polygamous 
relations at though nothing had occurred to interrupt them. 

It is true that more secrecy is observed now than formerly 


4 


PREFACE. 


in the “solemnization” of polygamous marriages, and that 
many of these marriages take place in the Temples at Manti 
or St. George, where there are no Gentiles to molest or make 
afraid ; — but in one of the most flagrant cases lately brought 
to the notice of the courts, the marriage was celebrated in 
the Endowment House in Salt Lake, almost in sight of the 
Federal Court Rooms, where the parties to such marriages 
are brought up for trial. 

The only way to make polygamy a dead issue, is to punish 
the leaders of the people, instead of their ignorant followers, 
and to make their punishment as severe as that of other 
felons. Thus far nearly all of the convicts have been from 
the rank and file. ’.When a Saint of any prominence is in- 
dicted, he accepts a mission to Europe, or finds a safe refuge 
among his brethren in the outlying settlements. 

It has been suggested that the government should either 
maintain its sovereignty, and enforce its laws in the Territory 
of Utah, or acknowledge th® prior claim of the Saints to the 
entire Rocky Mountain region, and retire gracefully from the 
country it has invaded. 

During the lak five years, the United States Courts in the 
Territory have made a firm stand, but they must be clothed 
with additional power before they can bring notorious offenders 
to justice. 

The known authors of scores of the outrages that blacken 
the annals of Utah, have filled positions of public trust and 
authority for years, instead of expiating their crimes in 
prison or on the scaffold, as they would have done elsewhere. 

The men who have been the victims of Mormon outrages, 
who have had their property destroyed and their business 
broken up, who have been maimed and crippled by brutal 
blows, are still living in the community. Is it any wonder 
that they object to having the authors of their wrongs placed 
in control of public affairs? 


PREFACE. 


5 


The widows and children of men who have been murdered 
by the Danites are also with us to-day, and it can scarcely 
be expected that they will forget their wrongs, and consent 
to live amicably beside those whose hands are red with the 
blood of their husbands and fathers. 

The conflict between the Federal officers and the local 
authorities can only end when the latter acknowledge the 
supremacy of national law. At present, there is no sign of 
surrender on either side. The representatives of the general 
government are taking vigorous measures to enforce the law, 
and they are met by an equally vigorous resistance on the 
part of the authorities of the Mormon Church. 

Yet to one who has watched the contest for nearly twenty 
years, it seems that the final result is no longer doubtful. 
On one side are ranged the friends of law and good govern- 
ment, on the other, the adherents of a system that sanctions 
polygamy, treason, and murder. In a battle between such 
forces, on American soil and in the nineteenth century, there 
should be no .question as to the party which will prove 
victorious. If the government of the United States, and the 
people, before whom the matter must come for final adjudi- 
cation, sustain the right, it is sure to triumph 


The Author 



•IN THE TOILS: 

OB 

MARTYRS OF THE LATTER DAYS 

PART I. 




IN THE TOILS 

OR 

MARTYRS OF THE LATTER DAYS. 

PART I. — Chapter i. 

THE HAPPY HOME. — THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER. — PRE- 
SENTIMENTS. 

It was a cloudy, chilly evening in May, Such as often 
follows a day of the brightest sunshine in our uncertain 
climate. The wind roughly shook the tender leaves of the 
young birches and maples, and moaned like an Autumn 
blast among the pines and hemlocks on the hill. The whole 
landscape looked colorless and cheerless under the dull 
gray sky, but in the foreground a human habitation lent to 
the picture something of the warmth of the life within. 

The house substantially built of hewn stone, surrounded 
by trim fences and neatly painted outbuildings, was evidently 
the abode of comfort and plenty, while the climbing rose- 
trees and honeysuckles covering the porch, the carefully- 
tended flower beds bordering the walks, and the shrubbery 
dotting the lawn, told of a presiding spirit in love with 
the beautiful — perhaps the women standing on the steps 
and looking out along the lane leading to the highway. 
The presiding spirit of the place she might have been, and 
yet — she scarcely seemed to belong to it. Let us sketch 
her as she stands. A superb figure, a noble head, carried 
somewhat haughtily, coal black hair, braided and worn like a 
coronet, eyes dark as the hair, and shaded by long silky 
lashes, mouth and chin“ cast in beauty’s mold,” but indi* 


8 


In the Toils. 


eating pride and firmness, as well as womanly tenderness, 
and a smooth cheek whose rich bloom told of warmer climes ; 

“A tint not won 
From kisses of a northern sun.** 

Such in face and form is Esther Wallace at twenty-seven. 
Years ago, when she was Esther Pryor, her companions 
called her “ Queen Esther,” and she looks a queen to-night, 
rather than the mistress of that pleasant country home. It 
is her home nevertheless, and the dearest one she has ever 
known — how dear npne can tell but the bird that sings 
in her heart, as she stands there watching for the coming 
of the master of the house. The tender light in her dark 
eyes grows brighter as she watches, and the lines about the 
proud mouth melt into soft curves. 

Love is lord and king to-night and the haughty spirit 
shrined in that beautiful form, owns his full power. “ Love’s 
young dream,” ended may be with girlhood, but love’s 
reality, wifely love deepened and strengthened by the pass- 
ing years, sanctified by suffering, and made more tender a 
thousand fold by the child-life cradled in her bosom, will 
never end. Never in her bright youth did Esther Pryor, 
watching shyly behind the lattice for her lover, look half so 
beatiful as Esther Wallace, waiting for her husband at the 
threshold of his home. 

“ How late it is ! What can keep him so long ? ” she said, 
half aloud, looking up a little anxiously at the gathering 
clouds. The wind swept round the house with greater force 
and a few drops of rain began to fall as she strained her 
eyes to catch a glimpse of the distant road. At this moment 
a side-gate was opened and shut noisily, and a bright little 
girl rushed up the garden path, and across the porch, crying 
breathlessly: 

“Oh, mamma, mamma, what do you think? A great 
ugly hawk flew down into the yard, and caught one of the 


In the Toils. 


9 


white hen s chickens and me and Horace knocked it over 
with a pole. Horace has got the hawk now and is going to 
nail it to the side of the barn he says, but the poor little 
chickie is quite dead ; only see, mamma,” and unfolding 
her apron, the child disclosed to view the luckless chicken 
pinched to death by cruel claws. 

“Softly, Winnie dear," responded the mother, “ I am 
very sorry, but was it you or Horace that killed the hawk 

“ Well, mamma, Horace killed it, but I screamed and 
made him come quick with the pole, so I helped, didn’t I ? ’* 

“Yes, I think so; but you had better put your chicken 
away now, and run in and see if supper is ready. Your 
papa will be home soon.” 

“ I’ll go mamma, but I mean to have a funeral to-morrow 
for this poor killed little creature. How bad her mother 
will feel and carefully wrapping up the dear departed, 
Winnie turned away. 

A smile flitted across the mother’s face, but it was quickly 
followed by a sigh, as her eyes wandered to a distant corner 
of the garden where a white railing inclosed a little mound 
on which the violets and forget-me-nots had bloomed for 
three summers past. She knew only too well how mothers 
felt when their little ones were taken from them, and her 
heart ached bitterly yet, whenever her thoughts turned to 
the soft blue eyes that were closed in such a long sleep and 
the tender baby-hands that were so cold when she kissed 
them last. 

Lost in a sorrowful reverie, she did not raise her head 
again to look for her husbands coming, until roused by 
Winnie’s footsteps. 

“ Hasn’t papa come yet mamma ? Aunt Eunice is going to 
have hot cakes and honey for supper and I am so hungry.’* 

** No, dear, papa is not in sight. I hope he will come 


lO 


In the Toils. 


soon, for it is going to rain, and he must not get wet. He 
is not really well yet." 

Winnie meantime, not waiting to hear the last words, had 
run down to the gate and mounted the horse-block. 

“ He is coming now,” she cried. “ That is papa just 
turning into the lane, and there is a gentleman with him, a 
tall gentleman that I don’t know. May I run and meet them.?’ 

“ Yes, if you want to. I must go in and tell Aunt Eunice 
there will be company to supper.’* 

Aunt Eunice, a staid, middle-aged colored woman, who 
presided in the kitchen of the stone house with a dignity 
becoming her responsible position, received her mistress 
graciously as she entered her own peculiar domain. 

“ Supper mos’ ready. Miss Esther, but ’pears like dese yer 
waffles takes de longest while to bake. Hopes Massa 
Wallace ain’t tired waitin’.? ” 

“ No, auntie, he isn’t home yet. He has but just turned 
into the lane and there is a strange gentleman with him. 
Have we anything very nice for supper ? ’’ 

“ Well now I’d done cooked suthin’ better if I’d ’s’pected 
company. S’posiri’ I jess fry some ham, an’ put on de peach 
jelly.?” 

“ All right. Auntie. Your suppers are always good. Get 
anything you like and I will go and meet Mr. Wallace and 
see what company he has brought.” 

When Mrs. Wallace returned to the porch her husband was 
already at the gate. His companion, a tall, dark-haired man, 
in the prime of life, was apparently a stranger to the neigh- 
borhood as well as to herself, as Mr. Wallace was pointing 
out to him the different objects of interest in sight. Advanc- 
ing up the walk Mr. Wallace presented his guest to his wife. 

“My dear, this is Mr. Harwood, an old friend of my 
father’s. I knew him well in my boyhood but he has lived in 
the West many years, and I had quite lost sight of him.” 


In the Toils. 


tt 


Courteously acknowledging the introduction, the stranger 
bent upon her a pair of keen gray eyes whose searching 
glance gave her a momentary feeling of discomfort. Where 
had she met that look before, or what was there in the 
scrutiny bestowed upon her to cause such an undefinable 
sense of uneasiness, almost of fear. 

She chided herself inwardly for her nervousness as she 
welcomed the stranger with graceful hospitality and led the 
way to a pleasant sitting room where a bright wood-fire 
dispelled the chilliness of the evening? 

“ Truly, Wallace," said Mr. Harwood, “you are wise to 
adnere thus far to the ways of your ancestors. After a 
winter’s experience of the close stoves that render most of 
your Eastern dwellings so uncomfortable, this fire is a pleas- 
ant surprise. How often have your father and I cracked 
our walnuts and roasted our apples before just such a blaze 
on the stone-hearth of the old homestead when we were 
boys." 

While he spoke Mrs. Wallace observed her husbands 
friend a little more closely. He might have been fifty years 
of age. His dark brown hair, long and curling at the 
ends, was slightly sprinkled with gray-. A full beard and 
mustache hid the lower part of his face completely and a 
well developed forehead, over-hanging brows and a Roman 
nose made up the remaining outlines of a not very remark- 
able countenance. But the eyes ! These once encountered 
would not soon be forgotten. They seemed to look you 
through and through, to discern your most secret thoughts, 
and they repelled while they mastered you. Mrs. Wallace 
shrank involuntarily from meeting them again and seated 
hertelf where she was not obliged to face her guest. Winnie, 
who all this time had kept in the background with a shyness 
rather foreign to her nature, now advanced to her mother’s 
side and Mr. Harwood perceiving her held out his hand. 


12 


In the Toils. 


“ Come heite, little one, and tell me your name. I think I 
forgot to ask before." 

The child hung down her head and did not stir. 

“ Winnifred !" said Mr. Wallace, reprovingly. 

At the sound of her father’s voice Winnie came forward 
slowly and with evident reluctance and gave her hand to 
the stranger. 

“A very nice little girl,” he said, smoothing her curls, 
“ and like mamma. Not afraid of me, I hope.^” 

A call to supper at this moment saved Winnie a repri- 
mand for not answering. At the table the conversation 
became general and Mr. Harwood proved himself an enter- 
taining talker. He was intelligent and well read, had 
traveled much and told amusing stories of his adventures 
in strange lands. The supper itself was a success, as Aunt 
Eunice’s suppers were apt to be, and everything passed off 
pleasantly. After the meal Mrs. Wallace excused herself to 
attend to household duties and did not return to the sitting 
room again before Winnie’s bedtime. While she was pre- 
paring the little girl for sleep, she said to her: 

“What was it Winnie, that made you act so strangely, 
when papa’s friend spoke to you to-night.? ” 

“Is he papa’s friend? I didn’t know that, and I am 
sorry for I can’t like him.” 

“ But why not ? My little daughter must not be like 
Willful Winnifred in the story book.” 

“ I don’t know, only I feel afraid of him. Sometimes I 
shiver all over when I' am not cold at all and Sarah Morris 
says I am walking over my grave then and I felt just so 
when that dark man held my hand.” 

“ Sarah Morris is very foolish to say such things, and 
you must not listen to her. Kneel down now and ask our 
dear Heavenly Father to take care of you and then go to 
sleep like my own good, little girl.” 


In the Toils. 


13 


Reverently, with folded hands, Winnie repeated the simple 
prayer with which she had been taught to commit herself to 
the keeping of a Heavenly Friend, and then snugly tucked^ 
in her white bed and soothed by her mother's tender words 
and good-night kiss, dropped into the sound, untroubled 
sleep of happy childhood. Her mother left the room to re- 
join her husband and his guest, feeling more uneasy and 
perplexed than she would have cared to own. What was 
there about this pleasant, courteous stranger, she asked 
herself, to make the child shrink from him. Then she 
recalled her own involuntary sensation of dread and dislike 
when she first felt his eyes fixed upon her but not wishing 
to yield to an unreasonable prejudice and being endowed 
moreover, with loo much common sense to be greatly in- 
fluenced by presentiments, she resolved to put the whole 
matter out of* her mind and exert herself to make Mr. Har- 
wood’s visit as pleasant as possible. The evening was spent 
in listening to their guest’s animated description of the 
Great West; and when they retired for the night Mr. Wallace 
said he had gained more information with regard to the 
resources of the country during that one conversation than 
in his whole life before. He was much interested in his 
father’s friend and hoped to be able to prevail on him to 
make their house his home while he remained in the neigh- 
borhood. His wife said nothing but long after he had 
sank into a quiet slumber, she turned restlessly on her pillow, 
striving in vain to banish the unpleasant impressions of the 
evening from her mind. 

When at last weariness overcame her and she closed her 
eyes it was only to wake in a few moments with a start, 
thinking she heard her child’s voice calling for help. 
Falling asleep again she dreamed she saw her husband 
standing on the crumbling edge of a precipice, apparently 
unconscious of danger, when suddenly the stranger ap- 


In the Toils. 


X4 

proached and thrust him over the brink. Frozen with horror 
she tried vainly to cry out, when all at once the scene 
changed and she was walking with her little girl along a w’ell 
known path. Happening to look up she saw a monster 
hawk circling slowly round and round above them. It drew^ 
nearer and assumed gigantic proportions with the head and 
face of her husband’s guest. With a shriek of mortal 
terror she caught her child in her arms just as the creature 
swooped down upon them ; but too late. The sharp claws 
were buried deep in the tender flesh and, when with super- 
human strength she wrenched her daughter from their 
hold, it was only to see her droop lifeless in her embrace. 
She awoke trembling in every limb and with the cold drops 
of agony standing on her forehead. The frightful dream 
was so vivid, the impression that some danger menaced 
her child s6 strong that she rose from her bed' and lighting 
her night-lamp, went into the little room adjoining her own 
where Winnie slept. The child whom she had left sleeping 
so peacefully a few hours before was now tossing from side 
to side with flushed cheeks and muttering indistinctly, the 
only word audible being the one that rises first to a child's 
lips when in trouble ; “ Mamma.” 

Her mother watched her for a few minutes, undecided 
whether to awaken her or not, but she grew quiet and soon 
her soft, regular breathing showed that her sleep was no 
longer disturbed. 

“ Can it be,” thought Mrs. Wallace, “ that the child’s 
slumbers are haunted as mine have been ? If I could bring 
myself to believe in forewarnings, I would surely think that 
this man’s visit was to cause us trouble. But no; I should 
be more childish than Winnie to give way to such fancies. 
My nerves are out of order and Winnie doubtless saw some- 
thing in my manner toward Mr. Harwood that influenced 
her. I will go to sleep and think no more about it.” 


In the Toils. 


15 


Reasoning thus she returned to her own room but sleep 
did not come at her bidding and hours passed before she 
found rest and forgetfulness. The light of the next morn- 
ing dispelled to a great extent the nervous terrors of the 
night and scorning herself a little for having been frightened 
by a dream she greeted her guest cordially when he made 
his appearance and presided smilingly at the bountiful 
breakfast table. 

Mr. Wallace, as he intimated to his wife the night before, 
was anxious to keep the guest whose society he found so 
pleasant, and urged him to stay with them as long as his 
business detained him in the place, but Mr. Harwood, with 
many thanks for the hospitable offer, declined, saying he 
was obliged to attend to affairs that would require his 
presence in the county town a few miles away most of the 
time. He, however, promised to make them another visit 
and Mrs. Wallace united with her husband in assuring him 
that it would be a great disappointment if he failed to do 
so ; still she was conscious of a feeling of relief when he 
was gone and found herself secretly hoping he might not 
return. 

We would not have the reader think from this that 
Esther Wallace was one of those women who tell white lies 
every day for the sake of not appearing discourteous. She 
thought it right to second her husband’s invitation, and if 
her manner .toward her guest was more cordial than her 
feelings, it was because she wished to conquer what she 
assured herself was a very silly prejudice. 

In the course of the morning Winnie, who had been out 
of doors most of the time atttending to the obsequies of 
the departed chicken, sought her mother in her room to 
announce that the funeral was over and she would like a 
piece of card-board to make a monument for the grave. 


i6 


In the Toils. 


The card board was hunted up and while Mrs. Wallace was 
shaping and lettering it according to orders she asked : 

“Did you sleep well last night, daughter.^” 

“Yes, mamma — or no. I forgot to tell you what a bad 
dream I had.” 

“ What was it, dear ? ** 

“ You would never guess, mamma. I dreamed papa gave 
me away to that strange man and he was going to take me 
off and papa would not listen, though I cried and begged 
ever so hard. Then I called ‘ mamma,* as loud as I could 
and the man caught me up but you came running and took 
me away from him. Don’t tell papa, please. I should be 
ashamed for him to know I dreamed such a thing about 
him — such a good papa.” 

Mrs. Wallace smiled as she kissed her little girl and gave 
the required promise, and the monument being now finished 
to Winnie’s satisfaction, she placed it in her hands and the 
child hurried away to pay the last token of respect to the 
memory of her downy favorite. 

While she is absent on this errand and her mother engaged 
with the duties of the day, we will go back a few years anej 
introduce more fully to the reader the persons whose 
future lives will form the subject of this truthful history. 


PART I. — Chapter n. 

A SPOILED CHILD AND A SUCCESSFUL MAN — A WEDDING — 
THE MORMON ELDER. 

Charles Wallace, the owner of the stone house and fer- 
tile acres around it, was of Puritan stock. His father was 
an honest New England farmer who had grown gray tilling 
the rocky soil of his native state before Charlie’s blue eyes 
opened to the light. 

The elder Wallace reared his family according to the tra- 
ditions of the Pilgrims. Work, hard work, was the law of 
the household, but it was coupled with the saving gospel of 
domestic love, homely kindness and mutual helpfulness. 
The boys were not driven but led to their daily task, and 
his elder sons did credit to the school in which they were 
trained. Year after year they followed the plow and 
wielded the scythe without once troubling their father with 
the aspirations that commonly take hold of the nineteenth 
century-youth whenever hard work is required of him, — 
but Charlie, the youngest of the flock — the mother’s gold- 
en- haired darling, rebelled against the toilsome and prosaic 
life that his brothers accepted as their manifest destiny. 
It was a thousand times pleasanter to lie under the apple 
trees on a hot summer-day and read of giants and fairies^ 
of knights and troubadors, than to ply a rake in the hay- 
field under a broiling sun, and the boy, like a good many 
older people, managed to persuade himself that the easy 
way was the right way. The father grumbled about his 
laziness but the mother plead for him and the sun-browned 
elder brothers took his part. He was their baby almost as 
much as the mother’s. While he yet wore white frocks they 


i8 


In the Toils. 


rocked his cradle, carried him on their shoulders to the 
barn and gave him many a ride on the gentle old horse that 
stood winking sleepily- beside the pile of fragrant hay, 
which was Charlie’s throne of state. He was king then and 
they his loyal subjects, and ever since it had been their 
pleasure to do his royal bidding. Now it seemed to them 
altogether right and fitting that he should play while they 
worked. “ He was such a little fellow yet,” chey argued, and 
he looked so fair and delicate with his pink cheeks, blue 
eyes and golden curls, they were sure he was not strong 
enough for rough farm work. They were very proud of 
him and so too in his secret heart was the father; proud of 
his ‘’smartness,” his book-learning, his gift for repeating 
page after page of poetry, and telling wonderful stories as 
they sat round the winter evening fire. 

Thus it came to pass that master Charlie grew up without 
making an intimate acquaintance with plow or rake. He 
graduated in his teens from the district school of his boy- 
hood to the village academy, where the youth of two gen- 
erations, had grappled with the mysteries of x y and 
stumbled through a few pages of Latin grammar. 

At this institution of learning he soon distanced all com- 
petitors and so distinguished himself that the teacher, the 
minister and the doctor all united in expressing the opin- 
ion that the boy would make something if he had a chance 
and his father ought to give him better advantages than the 
village afforded. Charlie quite agreed with them but when 
he made known his views to his father and modestly re- 
quested to be sent to college, the old man thought it quite 
time to clip the wings of his soaring ambition. 

“No Charlie;” he said, “I’ve let you have your own 
way all along but this is goin’ a leetle too fur. If I send 
all my boys to college, what will be left to give them a start 
or take care of mother, when I am gone? I can’t make 


In the Toils. 


19 


fish of one and flesh of another. Look at your old father’s 
hands my boy. Think how hard I’ve worked to bring you 
all up, and your brothers have worked hard too— no better 
boys in the country. I ain’t complainin’ of you Charlie. 
You Ve always been a good boy to me and your mother 
but you’re old enough now to think of somethin’ besides 
school. There’s more things to be studied in this world 
than books as you will find out if you live to be as old as 
I am, and many a boy goes through college without learnin’ 
what he needs to knows most.” 

Charlie knew very well that there was no appeal from his 
father’s decision and the idea of going to college had to be 
given up ; but farm life was as distasteful to him as ever. 
So like another younger son he prayed : “ Father give me 
the portion of goods that falleth to me” and like him also 
when he had gathered all together he took his journey into 
a far country, but there the parallel ended ; for our Charlie, 
though not fond of hard work, had no disposition to waste 
his substance in riotous living. He had an uncle in an- 
other State, who had made a fortune in trade and to him he 
went. The merchant, who had no children of his own, re- 
ceived his sister’s son cordially and under his advice and 
management Charlie’s small stock of worldly gear was so 
well invested that he had the satisfaction of seeing it dou- 
bled before the year ended. Prosperity continued to at- 
tend him and the next year he felt himself rich enough to 
retire from business and carry out his plans for study but 
just at this time while making one of his trips across the 
country with his uncle, he met Esther Pyror and thenceforth 
a change came over his* dreams. 

A pair of glorious dark eyes came between him and the 
pages of his favorite books when he opened them and the 
dead languages were neglected for the charm of a living 
voice. It was the old, old story which is as new to-day 


90 


In the Toils. 


as when the first pair of lovers wandered hand in hand on 
the banks of the four rjvers that still 

“ Yield those murmurs sweet and low 
Wherewith man's life is undertoned.** 

And Esther } An orphan living under the roof of a dist- 
ant relative, it was not strange that she yearned sometimes, 
for closer ties and a nearer companionship than any she 
had known since her dead were buried out of her sight. 

A native of the sunny South, she was homesick often in 
this cold Northern land, though she had money enough to 
save her from dependence and her beauty surrounded her 
with admirers while her affectionate nature and cheerful 
spirit made fast friends of those who knew her best. 

But Queen Esther, bright, warm hearted and gentle to 
' thoie she loved, was a trifle haughty withal and thus far 
those who came a-wooing, attracted either by her fortune or 
her handsome face, had found little favor in her eyes. 
Secretly she shared the favor of her faithful servitor, Aunt 
Eunice, that “ Dese yere Nordeners warn’t much count 
none on ’em rale gentlemen like ole’ massa.” 

When Charlie came in her way, she rated him with the 
others at fii st, but as he dared do no more than worship her 
in secret, she did not feel called upon to be as reserved 
with him as her acknowledged suitors and meeting him upon 
the familiar footing of every day acquaintance, she began 
before long to admit to herself that there were real gentle- 
men even at the North. Perhaps this change in her views 
was apparent in her manner toward Charlie ; at any rate 
his visits became more frequent and he found excuses for 
remaining in the neighborhood week after week. The 
sequel is soon told. 

The soft summer night, the moonlight, the breath of June 
roses in the air, may have helped to give courage to the 


In the Toils. 


at 


timid lover and subdue the heart of the proud Southern 
beauty, but certain it is that when Charlie was at length 
summoned to the city and came to say good-byie, the bal- 
cony from which they had .watched the stars on other nights 
was the scene of a passionate avowal of love that had 
never found expression in words before, and he went away 
carrying with him Esther’s promise to be his wife. 

If love is not all of life to a woman, it is at least so 
much to her that life would be worth little with love left 
out, and Esther Pryor, rich, beautiful and admired had 
found her life very empty without it. In the dear South- 
ern home where she grew up from infancy to the verge of 
womanhood an atmosphere of rare tenderness surrounded 
her. ‘‘Too much indulgence has spoiled many children ; 
too much love not one.” So wrote one who knew the heart 
of a child, and Esther, though a dearly loved only daugh- 
ter, was not spoiled. She was far from being faultless 
however and bore little resemblance to the good children 
in books who always die young. Her exuberant vitality, 
coupled with the mischief into which it constantly over- 
flowed, would have made her a terror to prim teachers and 
elderly maiden aunts, but happily for the little Esther none 
of these watched over her childhood, and her real faults, 
a violent temper and a strong self-will, were wisely dealt 
with by a mother as firm as she was loving. 

“^lothers have God’s license to be missed,” so Esther 
thought in the long years that followed, when the tender 
voice was stilled and the hand that guided her childish foot- 
steps had moldered back to dust. The father’s love for 
his only child was too nearly allied to worsjiip, for him to 
perceive her faults and Esther remembered him only as 
the “darling papa,” who showered gifts and caresses upon 
her without limit and for whose coming she always watched 


22 


In the Toils. 


so eagerly. Alas! There came a day when her loving 
watch ended in woe unspeakable. 

One bright morning her father mounted his horse and 
rode away to transact some business with a neighboring 
planter. He did not expect to return before night and as 
it drew near sunset Esther, as was her custom, ran gaily 
down the avenue and stood at the gate to be the first one 
to meet papa. She could not look far down the road for 
where their grounds ended a sudden turn hid it from sight ; 
but she could hear the sound of the horse’s hoofs a long way 
off and for this she stood listening when she heard instead 
the roll of wheels. 

As the cariage came in sight she recognized it as one be- 
longing to a friend of her father’s who lived a few miles 
away. The gentleman sat on the box beside the coachman 
and as they halted at the gate Esther said to him : 

“ Papa is not at home, but drive right in. He will be 
here directly.” 

” My little girl,” he answered, “I want to see your Uncle 
Robert. Will you run to the house and call him 

As he spoke Esther noticed how white and strange he 
looked and she turned to do his bidding wondering whether 
he was sick or anything dreadful had happened at his house. 
Uncle Robert, her father’s brother who was spending a few 
weeks with them, received her message with surprise. 

“ Mr. Jerrolds wants me at the gate you say. Why did 
he not come in ?” 

But Esther was already gone to tell her mother how 
sick Mr. Jerrolds looked when he sent her to call her 
uncle. 

Presently the carriage came slowly up the avenue, Mr. 
Jerrolds and Uncle Robert walking ahead. It stopped be- 
fore the veranda and Mr. Jerrolds came along into the room 


In the Toils. 


23 


where her mother sat. He was paler than ever, Esther 
thought, and he could hardly speak. 

“ My dear Mrs. Pryor,” he began at length, “ Your hus- 
band ” — 

Has anything happened to him she- cried, terrified by 
his white face and trembling utterance,” ** Tell me all and 
tell me quickly!” 

** My dear madam, be calm, I entreat you. He has been 
thrown from his horse and hurt.” 

“ Is he badly hurt ? Have you brought him home ? Let 
me go to him,” — for Mr. Jerrolds had placed himself before 
the door. 

“Wait a moment, Mrs. Pryor, only a moment. They are 
bringing him in. He is very badly hurt. He is” — 

“ I know ! I know ! He is dead. Do not stop me ! ” And 
wild-eyed and tearless the bereaved wife rushed past him 
into the hall through which four of the men-servants were 
bearing the body of their master, who had left them that 
morning so full of life and strength. At the sight of their 
mistress they paused a moment with their sad burden. 

“ Give him to me,” she said, “ Bring him here I He is 
mine.” , 

In awe-stricken silence they obeyed and laid him down 
on the sofa in the pleasant room that until z.jw had been 
the brightest in the house. Esther who all the while had 
stood as if transfixed, v/hen she saw her father lying there 
so white, and still, threw herself down beside him crying: 

“ Oh papa! darling papa! wake up ! Look at your own 
little girl! Don’t die papa! don’t die!” 

Alas! the eyes "that had always met hers with looks of 
tenderest love were forever closed and the cold hands, upon 
which the sobbing child rained passionate kisses would 
never more clasp “ papa’s own little girl.” The wife ut- 
tered no cry, made no moan. With a face as white as the 


24 


In the Toils. 


one upon the sofa-pillow she knelt beside her dead, holding 
the lifeless head as tenderly as though a careless touch could 
hurt it now and putting back the dark hair from a cruel 
wound above the temple. An hour passed but no efforts 
or entreaties availed to move her from the spot until Esther 
who was awed into forgetfulness of her own grief by the look 
on her mother’s face, clinging to her dress begged between 
her sobs that mamma would come with her and not leave 
her all alone. 

“ Papas little girl,” the stricken woman said softly, look- 
ing down on the trembling, childish figure. Then followed 
a gush of blessed tears and laying her precious burden gently 
back on the pillow she suffered herself to be led from the 
room. Through the sad days that followed, the thought of 
her fatherless child for whose sake she must live saved the 
widow from sinking utterly under the suddenness of the 
blow that had bereft them both. But when all was over 
and sorrowing relatives and sympathizing friends departed 
leaving them alone in the home from which the light had 
gone out forever, she felt it impossible to endure life there, 
where they had been so happy together ; where, turn which 
way she would, her eyes rested on something that re-called 
the past. Esther too in her childish way expressed the 
same feeling; 

“ Mamma,” she said, “ do let us go away somewhere. As 
long as we stay here where papa was always with us, it seems 
as though he niust come back, though I know he never 
will and I cannot bear it ; indeed I cannot,” 

Esther’s words decided her mother. Her own early home 
was in the North and though father and mother, brothers 
and sisters had long since passed to the other world, she 
longed to breathe her native air again and look once more 
upon the familiar scenes of her girlhood; so, leaving her 
affairs in trusted and safe hands and taking with her only 


In the Toils. 


*5 


her daughter and the faithful Aunt Eunice who had been 
Esther’s nurse in infancy she sought the quiet village where 
she was born. Here surrounded by old friends and de- 
voting herself to Esther s education she found, if not a balm 
for her sorrow, at least strength to bear it uncomplainingly. 
The lover of her youth, the husband to whom she gave her 
whole heart was still hers though the curtain, of eternity had 
fallen between them, and she waited patiently for the lifting 
of the veil — the hour of sweet and indissoluble re-union. 

It came soon. Before Esther was sixteen she closed her 
mother’s eyes and was indeed all alone. In the place of 
her father’s tender caresses her mother’s loving words, there 
remained to her only the marble shaft that she could see 
from her window gleaming through the trees when she 
looked out toward the churchyard — only that mound in the 
far South which she had left when the magnolias were drop- 
ping their white petals upon it — two graves and nothing 
more. True, she had been taught and she believed that her 
father and mother still lived in Heaven but Heaven seemed 
very far off to the lonely girl. The other world was too 
shadowy and indistinct for her to picture father and mother 
living and loving her the same as when she could see them. 

Oh how far, 

How far and safe, God, dost Thou keep thy saints 
When once gone from usl We may call against 
The lighted windows of thy fair June-Tieaven, 

Where all the souls are happy— and not one, 

Not even my father, looks from work or play 
To ask, “ Who is it that cries after us, 

Below there in the dusk? ” 

But happily it is so ordered in God’s good Providence 
that time soon heals the wounds of grief in young hearts, 
and though Esther never for an hour forgot her beloved 
dead and never ceased to miss them, the years took from 
her sorrow much of its bitterness, and when the new love 
came to fill her heart and life the world looked as bright to 


26 


In the Toils. 


her as to any loving, trusting woman when she utters the 
vow: 'Forsaking all others I will cleave only unto thee.” 
«♦*♦*** 

It M as June, the month of roses, when she first met Charles 
Wallace and in October, when as her lover said the earth 
had p»it on gold and purple to do honor to a royal bride, 
they v^ere married. Eight years had passed since then ; 
years so full of sunshine that Esther sometimes feared they 
were too happy, until the first shadow came and the little 
grave was made in the garden. Their home was in the 
country because Esther wished it, but their money enabled 
them to live very much as they pleased, and Wallace found 
the life of a gentleman-farmer not so distasteful after all. 

He had at length realized the dreams of his boyhood. In 
his cozy library, surrounded by the books he coveted, he 
had leisure and opportunity to study as much as he would ; 
but somehow when the patter of Winnie’s baby feet began 
to be heard about the house, his attention was drawn from 
graver pursuits to watch the development of her wonder- 
ful talents. Wife and child were so much to him that he 
would have found life very pleasant even if literature, science 
and art had been banished from it altogether ; and as the 
years followed one upon another he realized the truth of his 
father’s words: “ There are a great many things in the world 
to be studied besides books.” He did not give up his liter- 
ary pursuits, but he was by no means absorbed in them ; 
the care of his family, the improvement of his estate and a 
natural interest in the affairs of the community in which he 
lived modified his plans of mental culture. 

At thirty he was neither a savant nor a renowned genius, 
but an affable, well-informed country-gentleman whose ac- 
quaintance was prized by his neighbors and who was elevated 
by his family to the pedestal upon which living hearts are 


In the Toils. 


27 


wont to place a tender husband and fond father — ^but the 
great world outside had never heard of him. 

At the time our story opens he was slowly recovering from 
the effects of a lingering sickness — brain fever followed by 
a general prostration of the vital forces, from which physicians 
and friends feared he would never rally. Contrary to their 
prophecies, however, his strength returned and he was now 
apparently almost as well as ever, but the quick eyes of his 
wife discovered a subtle change in him. He had grown 
dreamy and abstracted to an extent that sometimes alarmed 
her, and when startled from these moods he was irritable 
though his temper heretofore had been remarkably placid 
child-like and even. The first fretful words he ever spoke 
to wife or uttered when roused suddenly from one of his rev- 
eries, but both were ready to make loving excuses for an in- 
firmity that was plainly more of the body than the mind. 

On the evening of Mr. Harwood’s visit he seemed quite 
like his former self, and the next day he was more cheerful 
than he had been for months. As they sat round the sup- 
per table at night Mrs. Wallace said : 

“ I don’t think your friend told us in what part of the 
West he was living.” 

“ Did he not ? He has lived in different Western States 
but his present home is in Utah.” 

“ In Utah ! Surely he is not a Mormon i ” 

Mr. Wallace smiled at the startled earnestness with which 
his wife put this question. 

“ That is not what he calls himself my dear. He and the 
people among whom he dwells proclaim themselves ‘ Latter 
Day Saints.’ ” 

“ Their saintliness must be of a very peculiar sort if the 
half that is said of them is true.” 

“ My dear wife, we must not allow ourselves to be too 
greatly influenced by what we hear. Eighteen centuries ago 


28 


In the Toils. , 


worse things were said of our Saviour and his followers than 
have ever been urged against the Mormons.” 

“ True, but those who spoke evil of Jesus and his disciples 
knew all the time that they were uttering wicked and un- 
founded calumnies, and the Judge before whom the case 
was finally tried was compelled to say ‘I find no fault in 
Him.* ’* 

“ Well, our Mormon friends may one day triumph in like 
manner over their accusers ; but we will not argue that 
point now. I am not very well informed with regard to 
their principles or their history, but when Mr. Harwood 
comes again we will let him plead his own cause. It would 
be unfair to condemn him and his people without a hearing.” 

Mrs. Wallace thought to herself that existence would be 
very tolerable without any further light on the subject of 
Mormon faith and practice, but she forbore to utter her 
thoughts aloud, and as she had herself invited Mr. Har- 
wood to come again, she could not well protest against a 
second visit from the Mormon Elder as she now understood 
him to be. So with the best grace she could, she resigned 
herself to the prospect of the infliction of a long discourse 
on the mission of the Prophet Joseph and the doctrines held 
by his followers. 


PART I. — Chapter m. 

UNDER THE SPELL. “ WHITHER THOU GOEST I WILL GO.** 

Two weeks passed however without bringing any 
tidings of Harwood and Esther was beginning to hope that 
he had left the country, when one bright day in June she 
was surprised by a visit from the aged pastor of the church 
to which she and her husband belonged. 

Father Belden, though trembling on the verge of four- 
score, and compelled to leave the active duties of his charge 
to a younger colleague, still felt a warm interest in dl his 
people and was greatly beloved and revered by them. To 
Esther as well as her husband he was father, friend and 
counsellor. Ever since she first knew him she had associ- 
ated his calm, benignant face with the thought of peace on 
earth and good-will to men, but to-day there was a shade of 
anxiety on the placid brow, and the hand that clasped hers 
in friendly greeting trembled. 

“ Are you not well Father Belden ? ’* she asked. “ You 
seem hardly as strong as usual.*’ 

“ Well in body my child, but something has happened 
lately that causes me much distress.’* 

“ Will you not tell us what it is ? If Charles or I can help 
you in any way you know how glad we will be to do so.” 

“ It is on your husband’s account that I have felt so much 
anxiety. I have hesitated for a number of days to speak to 
you about it, but now I feel that I can no longer avoid it.” 

It was now Esther’s turn to tremble and turn pale. “ What 
can you mean ? ” she asked. 

If there is anything wrong with him or any danger 
threatening him surely I ought to know it,” 


30 


In the Toils. 


“ Doubtless you, his wife, have observed more clearly 
than his friends outside his home that since his sickness his 
mind has never quite recovered its former tone." 

“ I have, but he is much better lately and I am en- 
couraged to believe he will soon be himself again in all re- 
spects. You don’t think otherwise ? ’’ 

“ I thought as you do that he would be quite well again 
soon, and such would doubtless have been the case if no 
disturbing influence had been brought to bear upon him. 
You had a visitor three weeks ago I think ; a Mr. Har- 
wood ? 

“ Yes, Mr. Harwood spent one evening with us, and 
Charles seemed much interested in him at the time but he 
has not called on us since. What has he to do with my 
husband’s state of mind ? ’’ 

“Much, I ?ear. Are you aware that Mr. Harwood is a 
Mormon missionary ? ’’ 

“ I learned after his visit that he was from Utah and a 
Mormon, but did not hear that he was on a missionary 
tour.’’ 

“Those people never leave home except to make con- 
verts or raise money, and Elder Harwood, as he is called, 
had both objects in view in coming here.’’ 

“You don’t think he expected to convert us 7 ’’ 

Mrs. Wallace smiled in spite of herself at the preposter- 
ous idea. Surely her good pastor’s mind must be failing a 
little if his anxiety about her husband arose from such a 
source. ♦ 

“ I am certain that Elder Harwood expects to make con- 
verts in this neighborhood, but I don’t think he has any 
hope of influencing you. With your husband however the 
case is different. If the Mormon missionary had talked 
with him six months ago he would not have listened to his 
sophistries for.a moment. Now he is not as you say quite 


In the Toils. 


3 * 


himself. His mind has not fully recovered from the effects 
of his illness, and he is in just the right state to be influenced 
by the wily Elder’s glowing picture of Christ’s temporal 
kingdom set up in the valleys of the far West and his ac- 
counts of the visions, revelations and visits of angels vouch- 
safed to the chosen people gathered there.” • 

Father Belden spoke so earnestly and with such evident 
anxiety that Esther for the first time felt a thrill of fear. 

“ When,” she asked, “ could Harwood have talked with 
my husband upon such subjects.^ Nothing of the kind was 
mentioned during his visit here, and they have not met 
since to my knowledge.” 

“ They have met without your krfowledge then, for I havs 
several times seen them walking together engaged in earn- 
est conversation, in which Charles was so much absorbed 
that he did not look up.” 

“ If he has been so deeply interested I wonder he never 
mentioned the matter at home. You know his open, frank 
nature and I don’t think he has had a secret from me since 
we were married.” 

“ I do not suppose he has. I know something of his de- 
votion to his wife and his confidence in her and I know how 
well she deserves both, but, my child, you must remember 
what you said yourself a few minutes ago and what I have 
just repeated — your husband is not quite himself now, and 
one of the first lessons taught by these Latter Day preachers 
to their converts is to practice concealment and deception 
toward their best friends.” 

“ You speak almost as though he might be a convert to 
this imposture already. I know his mind is weakened by 
illness and in his present state his father’s friend may have 
a temporary influence over him, but it is not possible that 


3 * 


In the Toils. 


such a transparent delusion as Joe Smith’s ‘ revelation * 
should j^ain any permanent hold upon him.” 

“ Esther,” said the old man sorrowfully, ” I would gladly 
give the poor remnant of my life to save you from such 
pain as my next words must gause. Charles was baptized 
into the Mormon faith by this Harwood yesterday.” 

Esther sank back in her chair dizzy and faint as from a 
sudden blow. She would have said again “ impossible ! ” 
but she remembered her husband’s absence from home the 
whole of the previous day, and his strange manner when he 
returned at night. She recalled too the fact that since 
Harwood’s visit he had seemed to have business at the vil- 
lage very often and had on every occasion staid away much 
longer than was his custom. All was explained now. The 
Mormon missionary, on the lookout for some one to entrap;% 
ftad heard of their circumstances, and of her husband’s state 
of health, and made up his mind that he would be an easy 
and profitable convert. His visit to their home probably 
convinced him that Wallace was the only member of the 
household whom he could hope to influence, and so he had 
taken measures to secure him at once and keep the whole 
matter from his friends until it was too late to thwart him. 

Deeply distressed, as she was, at this discovery, no thought 
of reproaching her husband entered the mind of the loyal 
wife. Iti his present state she considered him scarcely 
more accountable for his acts than for words uttered in the 
ravings of deliriuip, but she felt a fierce resentment rising 
in her heart against the man who had stolen into their home 
under the guise of friendship and dealt this fatal blow to 
its happiness. She sat in stunned silence, incapable of re- 
plying to her pastor’s expressions of sympathy and seeing 
that she would be better alone, he commended her in a few 
fervent words to the Friend whose love abides when ali 
other loves fail, and left her to seek help from Him. 


In the Toils. 


33 


Long after the good man had taken his departure Esther 
remained as he left her seeking to realize the nature and 
extent of the calamity that had fallen upon her. 

Only two years before her sympathies were deeply enlisted 
in behalf of a poor woman whose husband left her 
and joined the Mormons, being influenced to do so by a 
specious misapplication of the words “He that loveth wife 
or children more than me is not worthy of me.*’ 

The deserted family haying been wholly dependent on 
the earnings of the husband and father for support, were 
plunged into the deepest poverty and distress, and Mrs. 
Wallace, whose charities were always abundant, was ap- 
pealed to for help by those who knew their circumstances. 
During the whole of the first winter after they were left alone 
she fed them from her own table, and the heart-broken wife 
who was completely prostrated in body and mind by the 
stroke which left her worse than widowed, clung to Esther 
as to the only friend she had on earth. How well she re- 
membered now every word of the poor creature’s sad 
story : 

“ I never blamed, my George, Mrs. Wallace. He was a 
good husband to me and a good father to his children, but 
it seemed as if he was possessed like, after he heard that 
man preach, and then he would come here and he and 
George would sit under that tree there and talk until maybe 
ten o’clock at night. Things went on in this way for weeks, 
George leaving his work and everything else to follow 
the preacher around. I never could bear the man 
from the day I set eyes on him. He always made me think 
of a snake, and my poor George was just bewitched by him 
as they say snakes will charm birds and squirrels. One 
night after he was baptized he came home in great trouble 
of mind. He wouldn’t go to bed, but just walked the floor 
till long after midnight. At last he comes to me and says : 


34 


In the Toils. 


* Mary will you be baptized and go with me ? * 

* Go where ? ’ says I. 

‘To Zion where the saints are gathering. I must be 
there to meet the Lord when he comes. It’s been been a 
great trouble to me that you wouldn’t listen to the gospel, 
but you must receive the truth now and go with me or I 
must go alone. I can’t lose my soul, no, not for wife nor 
children. I love you Mary and I love the little ones, God 
knows I do, but I must go where he calls.’ 

Well, I told him I would go with him to the ends of the 
earth, but I would never be baptized and pretend to believe 
something that I knew was a lie. Nothing more was said 
that night, and very early in the morning George got up 
and went away, telling me he was wanted in town and 
wouldn’t be home to dinner. He didn’t come back at 
night and when I went to the village to look for him (it was 
ten o’clock and I was almost wild for he never staid away 
after dark), they told me he went off on the cars in the 
morning with the Mormon preacher and two or three 
others. He never left any word for me, not even a line to 
say good-bye, and I never heard from him afterwards. And 
there were the children, crying to see me cry, and little 
Jimmy calling at night for his papa to undress him as he 
always used to, and I knowing all the time that their father 
had left us for good. It was more than I could stand up 
under and when I took sick my poor little baby pined away 
and died in less than a month. Oh, Mrs. Wallace was there 
ever any trouble like mine ? ” ‘ 

Was there ever ? Ah! poor stricken heart, how many be- 
trayed and deserted wives, deserted for this same false and 
cruel faith, could give answer if they dared to speak, but 
those who suffer most from the blighting influence of this 
religion, that sunders the holiest ties, must suffer in silence, 
for they are placed where the same remorseless tyrany that 


In the Toils. 


35 


crushes their heartfj seals their lips likewise. Esther Wal- 
lace, sitting with fc owed head in the home which the ser- 
pent had already entered, asked herself the same question, 

** Was there ever any sorrow like my sorrow ? ’* Through 
the open window floated the song of birds, the breath of ♦ 
the flowers and all the sounds of happy life in the world 
outside. 

It was just such a lovely summer day as that on which 
her father rode away to his death, just such a day, oh woe- 
ful thought, as the one on which she first met him who 
would soon be hers no longer, for she knew enough of the 
delusion that had mastered her husband to be certain that, 
once completely under its power, he would be lost to her 
and his child forever. Yet while her heart was full of bit- 
terness toward the man who had deluded him, for her hus- 
band himself she felt the tender pity of a mother for her 
sick babe. 

“ Poor Charlie ; my poor darling,” she said over and over 
again to herself, “ in his right mind he would sooner cut off 
his hand than do what he has done. He is not to blame. 

It is I who am to blame for not watching him more closely.” 

While she still sat thinking over the perplexing and pain- 
ful position in which she found herself, she heard her hus- 
band’s well known step on the porch, and a moment after 
he entered the room, looking pale and tired. 

“ Alone Esther ? ” hp asked. 

“•Yes dear, just now. Winnie begged to ride with Horace 
to the mill and I let her go.” 

“ I am glad she is not here, for I want to talk to you a 
little while without interruption.” 

He threw himself wearily into a chair, and the dreamy, 
far-away look that Esther had noticed so often of late came 
into his eyes, but he roused himself directly and said : 

“ Dear wife you and I have made ourselves believe for a 


In the Toils. 


3<5 

good many years that we were Christians, but in the light of 
recent experiences I am constrained to think we have been 
sadly mistaken. The Gospel tells us that Christ’s followers 
deny themselves, bear a daily cross, suffer as he suffered, 
and are hated by the world. We have been living easy, 
comfortable lives ; most of our days have passed without 
crosses and the, world does not hate us. Do you think we 
can lay any claim to discipleship ? ” 

Yes, I think we can, though we have not followed Christ 
fully I know. There are other tests of discipleship than 
those you have mentioned, but suppose we take them alone. 
In one form or another we have found our daily cross, only 
look back and I think you will admit that. And if we have 
not literally forsaken all things, I think we have held our 
possessions subject to a higher will ; ready to give them up 
when called for. Remember, dear love, when the most 
precious thing we had, our only son, was demanded of us, 
we gave him up, not without tears it is true, but without re- 
bellious murmurings.” 

“ Yes, I know we gave up our child because it was not in 
our power to hold him back, but what voluntary sacrifices 
have we ever made ? And then again how can we think we 
belong to the company of those who have been chosen out 
of the world, while we still have the world’s friendship ? I 
know of but one people who are hated of all men for their 
Lord’s sake, and to them I am commanded to join myself. 
A voice that I dare not disobey calls me.” 

Again he relapsed into a dreamy silence, as though he were 
indeed listening to a voice that others could not hear, while 
Esther, feeling that her worst fears were confirmed, sum- 
moned all her strength to ask the final question: 

‘‘ Who are these people, and when and how do you pro- 
pose to join yourself to them.? 

“ They are the people of whom we have spoken once be- 


In the Toils. 


37 


fore those who have forsaken home and friends for the sake 
of their faith, crossed a savage desert at the peril of their 
lives, and gathered in the valleys beyond the Rocky Moun- 
tains to wait for their Lord, until he comes to reign a thou- 
sand years as he foretold. I am already united to them in 
the faith and hope of the Gospel. I h^ve been united to 
them by baptism, and now I only await your consent to dis- 
pose of all we have here, and to accompany me to join them in 
the peaceful valleys where, separated from a world that will 
not receive the truth ; they worship God in the way He has 
commanded.” 

“ But why, dear, have you waited so long to tell me of 
this? You have always confided in me, why then did you 
not speak to me at the first of your convictions and pur- 
poses ? ’* 

“ Because I feared you would not see the truth as I saw 
it. You remember that immediately after Elder Harwood’s 
visit, we talked a little about his people, and you expressed 
yourself quite strongly in opposition to their views and 
practices. Knowing your feelings I shrank from speaking 
to you of my own, while the struggle between my will and 
the Divine call was going on in my heart. At times it 
seemed impossible that I should submit to the requirement 
to forsake all and go whithersoever the Spirit might lead. 
Judge then how much harder the struggle would have been, 
if in addition to conquering my own rebellious heart I had 
been forced to withstand your tears and entreaties.” 

“And now you say the struggle is ended ? ” 

“ Yes. Whatsoevei; the Lord commands by the voice of 
his servant, that will I do.” 

“ That means,” thought Esther, “ that he submits himself 
entirely to Harwood’s dictation,” but a look into her hus- 
band’s face convinced her that he was sincere in believing 
he obeyed the voice of God. Harwood, whom she could 


38 


In the Toils. 


not look upon otherwise than as a designing and unscrupu- 
lous villain, was to him a messenger from Heaven, whose 
every word was to be heard reverently and obeyed implicitly. 

She saw too that he had no suspicion whatever of Har- 
wood's real motive in counselling him, as she did not doubt 
he had done, to obtain her consent to sell their property 
and accompany him to Utah. 

It will be remembered that at the time of their mar- 
riage Wallace possessed only a modest competence, while 
she had what was counted in those days quite a large for- 
tune in her own right. At Wallace’s express wish his wife’s 
property was settled on herself in such a manner that he 
had no control over it. His own money was invested in 
their home, which of course could not be sold without her 
consent. Now, Elder Harwood, as she read him, was not 
at all anxious to take his convert to Zion empty-handed, 
and he relied on her affection for her husband as a means 
of securing their property. If she refused to go with him 
would Charles give up the idea of gathering with the Saints? 
She thought not, but to place the matter beyond doubt she 
asked : 

“ Suppose I cannot see my way clear to dispose of every- 
thing we have and go with you, what then ? ” 

“ Then Esther, though I love you and our child far better 
than my own life, I cannot hesitate a moment between the 
dearest earthly love and a Divine command. I must go 
alone.” 

As he spoke his lips were compressed as though struggling 
with mental pain, but his eyes shone with almost delirious 
enthusiasm, and he was plainly prepared to go any lengths 
in making the voluntary sacrinces of which he had spoken. 
It would avail nothing to reason with him in his present 
mood. His wife felt this, so she only said gently : 
“ Give me a little time' Charles. All this is so new, so un- 


In the Toils. 


39 


expected, that I cannot decide at once as to what I ought 
to do.** 

“ As much time as you wish dear wife, and I pray and 
trust that light maybe given to show you the only right way. 
I will leave you alone now that you may be better able to 
look over the ground and come to a decision.** 

So saying Wallace withdrew to his study. Esther feeling 
as though life and hope had suddenly come to an end, after 
a vain attempt to look over the ground as her husband sug- 
gested, lost altogether the self-control she had hitherto main- 
tained, and wept and sobbed like a grieved child. 

“ Oh mother, mother • ** was her first despairing cry, as 
though the mother whose grave had been green so many 
years could hear and help her now. Then the words that 
came to her before, when she was passing through deep waters 
made themselves audible to her wounded spirit. “ The mo- 
ther may forget her child yet will I not forget thee.** “ As 
one whom his mother comforteth so will I comfort you.** And 
calmed and strengthened by the thought of the Infinite Love 
that is never deaf to the cry of the helpless and distressed, 
she laid her case before One who has left us the assurance 
that He will bear all our griefs and carry all our sorrows. 

After this her way seemed clear. Hard as it was to decide 
to leave home and friends, and bury herself and her child in 
the wilderness, and among a people of whose practices she 
had heard enough to make her shrink from contact with them, 
it would be far harder to give up her husband entirely and 
let him go alone. “ He needs me now more than ever be- 
fore,** she thought “ I promised to cleave to him till death 
should part us, and from that promise nothing can absolve 
me. And who knows.? — perhaps he may come to himself in 
that wretched place, and be as glad to leave it as I shall.” If 
she had been told, as she wove this one bright thread into the 
picture of their future, that once settled in the valleys of 


40 


In the Toils. 


Utah, she would have little more prospect of leaving them 
than of returning from her grave, she would have found it 
hard to believe it. She thought that actual contact with the 
people whom her husband denominated “ the chosenof the 
Lord " might be the surest means of opening his eyes, and 
though the experiment was a costly one she decided to 
make it. 

On one point it afforded her some pleasure to know she 
had it in her power to disarrange Elder Harwood’s plans. 
Her husband might part with his own property if he chose, 
but not one penny of her money should be handled by that 
devout saint and successful missionary. 

In the midst of her grief and anxiety she almost smiled to 
think of the Elder’s discomfiture, but she felt quite sure he 
would allow Charles to accede to her terms, since he could 
not even take with him the price of their home unless she con- 
sented to its sale. 

Full three hours passed while she was shaping these resolu- 
tions, but she did not notice the lapse of time, until recalled 
to a consciousness of outward events by Winnie, who came 
bounding into the room to tell the adventures of her won- 
derful journey of five miles or more. 

The sight of her mother’s sober face quieted the lively 
child somewhat, and when her father, as he came from his 
study, received her eager greeting almost in silence, she felt 
that something was wrong, but with a discretion acquired 
since “ papa’s sickness ” she asked no questions. 

The subject that absorbed the thoughts of both husband 
and wife was not mentioned by either, until they retired for 
the night, and then Esther was the first to speak. 

“ I think, dear,” she said, “ that I see my way clearly 
now; at least as clearly as I ever shall, and my decision is 
made. ‘ Where thou goest I will go,’ but more than this I 
cannot say. The God my mother worshipped must still be 


In the Toils. 


41 


my God, and you must not ask me to join myself to the peo- 
pie of your choice. I am willing to leave home and friends 
for your sake, but my conscience must remain unfettered.” 

You promise all that I expect or require, Esther. 
Faith cannot be coerced. If in the future light is given you 
to see otherwise than you now do, I shall be glad and thank- 
ful, but not for worlds would I attempt to bend you to my 
vieVs, if the truth itself does not constrain you, I am only 
too happy to know that you will go with me on any terms. 
I go forth from my country and kindred like Abraham, but 
like him I am favored in that I am not compelled to leave 
behind the xiear wife, whose love is the crown and blessing 
of my days.” 

The tender words, the loving look and tone, were too 
much for Esther’s over-burdened heart, and burying her 
face in the bosom that had been her refuge in every other 
sorrow, she wept without restraint. Her husband clasped 
her in his arms and kissed away her tears as tenderly as 
though there was no shadow of a barrier between them, and 
as she clung to him she said to herself “ He is mine still. 
This cruel belief that would separate what God hath joined 
together cannot take him from me.” 

The next morning found her in a happier frame of mind 
than she would have thought possible. As long as she 
could be sure of her husband’s undivided love she could 
face any trial, and since he was not so wedded to his 
new belief as to demand that she should share it, as a con- 
dition of sharing his heart and home, henceforth, she did 
not despair of his final restoration to a sound mind, and to 
the faith of his fathers. She had said nothing to him as 
yet about the disposal of their property, but she thought it 
best to do so now in order that Elder Harwood, whom he 
would doubtless meet and confer with during the day, 
might have a clear understanding of the terms on which she 


4 * 


In the Toils. 


consented to accompany her husband. So immediately 
after breakfast she followed Charles into his study and 
said : “ You have not told me yet what you wish to do 

with our home.” 

“ No, I don’t think that was mentioned last night, for 
then we were talking of matters of more importance. You 
know, Esther, I have no control over your property, nor do 
I wish to exercise any. It is right for you to do what you 
will with your own, but I will sell our home with your con- 
sent, and take the proceeds with us to be used as the Lord 
may direct.” 

“ Well, dear, I can only repeat your words. It is right 
for you to do what you will with your own. I will consent 
cheerfully to any disposition of this place that you think 
best to make, but the money that my father left me is Win- 
nie’s inheritance, and we ought not to risk that. It seems 
to me that we should only take with us what w^e will be 
likely to need in making a new home, and leave the re- 
mainder here in safe hands until our daughter grows to 
womanhood.” 

“ Very well. We will then consider our affairs so far set- 
tled. And now, how soon will it be possible for you to get 
ready for the journey ? We have a long distance to go, and 
as it is already the first week in June we have little time to 
spare if we wish to get settled in our new home before win- 
ter. I can find a purchaser for this property in twenty-four 
hours, so we need wait for nothing but such preparations 
as must be made for your comfort and Winnie s on the 
way.” 

“Two weeks will be sufficient for any preparations that I 
have to make. Since we have decided to go, the sooner we 
start the better.” 

“Well, then, I will ride to town this morning to see what 
arrangements I can make about the property, and in the 


In the Toils. 


43 


meantime you can, if you think best, let the family know of 
the decision we have come to." 

After her husband left, Esther nerved herself for what she 
felt would be the most difficult task of the day — namely, to 
acquaint Aunt Eunice with their plans. Her faithful old 
nurse was the last re^maining link between the present and 
the past. Her mother commended her to Aunt Eunice’s 
care with her dying breath, and the devoted servant would 
have risked her life to save her young mistress an hour’s 
pain. Esther knew the old woman would consider 
that in emigrating to Mormondom they were flying in the 
face of Providence, and courting destruction, but she knew 
too, that she would go with them, if their way led into the 
jaws of death. When she entered the kitchen Aunt Eunice 
was kneading the bread for the day’s baking. 

“You’se not feelin* berry well to-day I’se feared Mis* 
Esther,” she said in response to her mistress* greeting. 
“ ’Pears like you didn’t hardly eat nuffin dis mornin.” 
“ Nonsense, Auntie, I am alwap well, but I have a great 
deal to think about to-day. Can you sit down a little while? 
I want to talk with you.** 

“ In a minute, honey, soon*s I kiver up dis yer bread.** 

This important business having been attended to. Aunt 
Eunice seated herself with a grave and somewhat anxious 
face to hear what her mistress had to say, when Esther 
proceeded to tell her what the reader already knows. 

“ De Lord be good to us chile*, ’’exclaimed the old woman 
raising her hands, “ is you rally gwine to jine dem ar Mor- 
monites ? ” 

No, no. Aunt Eunice, not to join them, but Mr. Wallace 
wishes to make his home in Utah, and where he goes I 
must go.** 

“ Now Mis’ Esther honey, you knows I nussed you when 


44 


In the Toils. 


you wor a* picaninny dat might a bin put in dat basket dar, 
and dere hasn't been a day o’ yer bressed life but what yer 
old Auntie would a’ died fur her lamb, so sartin, I wouldn’t 
hurt yer feelin’s now, but ’pears like you might a’ hendered 
dis yer.” 

“ No, Auntie, it is something that I cannot prevent. Mn 
Wallace really believes that God calls him to go, and he 
thinks he will lose his soul if he does not obey.” 

“ Its’ all de doin’s o’ dat ar man with rattlesnake eyes. 
Didn’t I feel in my bones when he corned heyar fust, he 
hadn’t come fur no good ? An’ pore Massa Wallace not 
like hisself, an’ couldn’t be ’spected to see through sech as 
him. I heern tell down to Easton o’ some of his goin’s on 
when I wor to meetin’ las’ Sunday ; nebber ’spected though 
dat he’d bin an’ bewitched Massa Wallace; a rail gentleman 
like him. Dese yer Mormonite preachers ginerally gobbles 
up de low trash like dem ar Joneses, I heern wor baptized 
in Easton las’ week. Nebber knowed but onct whar dey 
ketched any culled people an’ dey warnt no ’count. Ye 
mind, Mis’ Esther when yer m.ar wor livin’ to Brampton 
dere wor Nance, used to wash for us. Nance alius let on to 
be mighty pious ; shout, shp would, in de prar-meetin’ like 
to take de ruff off de house. She used ter work fur Missis 
Nash, berry nice lady and alius did a heap fur Nance, long 
o’ s’posin her to be one o’ de I.ord’s chillen. Well, one day 
de Missis comes down to Nance’s place kinder onexpected 
like, an’ Nance wor havin’ a quarrel with some o’ de nabors, 
swarin’ an’ goin’ on like mad. When she seed de Missis a 
conlin* inter der yard she wor tuk back some, but Nance al 
lus had a drefful sight o’ brass, so she axed her in an’ brung 
a cheer. Den de Missis begins fur to tell what she heern 
her sayin* as she wor cornin’ to de house, an* how bad she 
feels. 

‘ Well, now, Missis, says Nance, ‘you must please ter 


In the Toils. 45 

’sense me dis onct. I didn’t go fur to do it, but dem ar 
niggers wor so aggravatin’ I couldn’t help it nohow, and Tse 
gwine to class to-night and I’se gwine to 'fess.’ Den de 
Missus tells Nance here’s de place to ’fess to dem what’s 
she’s done wrong to, an’ Nance she flies up an’ says ‘ What ! 
me git down on my knees to dem niggers ? No, I telled em 
I’d pull ebery spar o’ wool out o’ dere heads, an’ I will ef 
dey gibs me any more sarse.’ Well, ye see, dat kinder 
opened de lady’s eyes an’ Nance didn’t git no more presents 
count o’ bein’ on de Lord’s side. Den ’long comes de 
Mormonite preacher a tellin’ how in Zion whar he lives de 
ribbers flow with milk an’ honey an’ Nance wor jest fool 
’nuff to b’lieve him an’ packed off long o’ some pore white 
trash in de town to trabbel to Zion. But ’scuse me Mis’ 
Esther, I nebber meant to run on dis yer way. I haint no 
manners nohow, to talk all de time, stead o’ listenin’ to what 
you has to say.” 

“ I have very little more to say Auntie, except to ask, 
since we must go and go at once, whether you will go with 
us.” 

“You didn’t need to ask dat, honey. When Massa Pryoi 
called me inter de parlor de night you wor born, an’ put you 
in my arms an’ says, ‘ Take good care of my dear little 
daughter,’ I thinks dis will comfort my pore heart fur my 
own picaninny what de Lord tuk to hisself. Sence dat 
night you’s bin my own chile, an’ if you wor called to go to 
de bottom of de sea Aunt Eunice would go to.” 

“ I know it. Auntie. I know you will never leave me 
while I live, and if I should die in that dreadful country, 01 
on my way there, you will take care of Winnie ? ’* 

“ Don’t go fur to talk o’ dyin* chile, an* break yer pore 
ole Auntie’s heart. De Lord what went with His chillen 
t’rough de sea an* t*rough de wilderness He will go with 
us. Ef Massa Wallace goes, its right fur you to go too an* 


In the Toils. 


4 « 

in de right way de angel ob de Lord will take car* o* dem 
as puts dere trust in Him.” 

“ Thank you, Auntie for reminding me of that. I am 
afraid I forgot for a little while His promise to be with us 
always, even to the end of the world. Only one thing more 
Aunt Eunice. Don’t speak in Mr. Wallace’s hearing, as 
though any of us thought it a hardship to go, and don’t let 
any one talk to Winnie about the Mormons. I should be 
sorry to have anything said to hurt her father’s feelings, and 
she might repeat something that would wound him.” 

“ Nebber you fear Mis’ Esther, I’ll take care o* dat. An* 
now honey you must tell what you want me to do ’bout gettin* 
yer things ready, ’cause dat ar Sophy ain’t no manner o’ 
’count when dere’s anything pertikler for to do, an’ she don’t 
need to know ’bout yer goin’ away jess yet nohow.” 

“ I will see about that this afternoon Auntie. I am going to 
to the village now, and I want you to watch Winnie a little. 
Don’t say anything to her about our leaving just yet, I will 
talk to her myself to-night. 


PART I. — Chaptsr it. 

CHRISTIAN COUNSEL. — THE DEPARTURE. 

Esther s errand to the village was to call on Father Bel- 
den and his wife and acquaint them with the step she was 
about to take. She did not feel as though she could talk 
with any one else about the matter, and when she came in 
sight of the parsonage and thought of the remonstrances and 
entreaties with which her announcement would be received, 
her courage began to fail, and could she have gone away 
without seeing even these kind friends, or bidding any one 
good-bye she would have turned back. She knew however 
that this could not be, and so suffered herself to be driven 
to the house with feelings approaching those of a criminal 
led to execution. 

When the carriage stopped at the door, the good pastor 
and his wife met her with their accustomed cordiality, but 
in their friendly greeting there was a mixture of sympathy 
and commiseration, which did not escape her notice. As 
soon as they were seated in the house, Esther, determined 
to have the worst over at once, said without preface : 

“ Father Belden, what you told me last night my husband 
has himself confirmed. He has cast in his lot with the 
Mormons, and is so firmly convinced that his salvation de- 
pends on his ‘ gathering with the Saints,' as he terms it, that 
if 1 do not consent to accompany him to Utah, he will leave 
wife, child, and home and go alone. He has not come to 


48 


In the Toils. 


this decision without a great struggle and much suffering, 
and — I cannot let him go alone.” 

“ You do not mean to say that you have decided to risk I 
your own future and that of your child in Utah, and among ' 
a people worse than heathen.? ” I 

“ Yes, Father Belden, I mean that. I cannot possibly ^ 
prevent my husband going, and I cannot let him go with no 
one to watch over him or care for him. He is no more fit | 
to take care of himself than a child, and no more responsible \ 
for his acts. If he had deliberately chosen to make his i 
home with this people, when in his right mind, the case 
would be different, but as it is my duty is clear.” 

“ Surely if his mind is in such a state that he is not re- 
sponsible for what he does, he might be placed under re- 
straint, and hindered from taking a step that he will regret 
as long as he lives, if he ever comes to himself.” 

” No, I don’t think any such measure could be adopted 
even if I could bring myself to consent to it. Charles is as 
capable of transacting ordinary business as he ever was ; it 
is only on religious subjects that his mind is unsettled. I 
promised to cleave to him in sickness and in health, and in 
this sickness of the mind, so peculiar in its nature, he has 
double need of me.” 

“ My dear child, you are right,” said the pastor’s aged 
wife, laying her wrinkled hand tenderly on Esther’s. “No- 
thing but deliberate crime on her husband’s part can ab- 
solve a woman from her vow to cleave to him until death 
parts them, and I question sometimes if even that can.” 

“ But consider,” interposed Father Belden, “ the sort of 
people among whom Esther must make her home. I have 
taken some pains to inform myself with regard to them, and 
I am well assured that their practices are on a par with those 
of the lowest portion of heathendom. Crimes that are a dis- 
grace to humanity are committed by them in the name of re- 


In the Toils. 


49 


ligion, and if they choose to make Esther and her child the 
victims of their barbarous creed, what is to hinder them ? 
They live in the heart of the wilderness, a thousand miles 
from civilization, in valleys walled in by impassable moun- 
tains and surrounded by savage deserts. Once shut up 
among them, there will be no escape for her.” 

“ She will still be under the care of One who has said, 
‘When thou passest through the waters I will be with thee, 
and through the depths they shall not overflow thee. When 
thou passest through the fire thou shalt not be burned, 
neither shall the flames kindle upon thee.* In His hands 
she will be just as safe there as here by our own fireside." 

“ Well, I ought to be ashamed, I suppose, of the weakness 
of my own faith. After preaching for fifty years that the 
Lord is a stronghold in the day of trouble, I should not 
hesitate to tell Esther to put His faithfulness to the test, 
only in the present instance I fear that to take the step she 
intends would be tempting God rather than trusting Him.** 
“ I think," said Esther, “ that perhaps a woman *s divinely 
implanted instincts may be the best guide here. My own 
heart says ‘ go.* Aunt Eunice whose faithful affection is 
second only to a mother*s love says: ‘go with your hus- 
band,* and now Mrs. Belden repeats the same thing.** 

“ If your duty is perfectly clear to you, then I have no 
right to advise otherwise, and if my poor prayers can help 
you, you know they will go up for you night and day.** 

“ One thing more I have to ask of you, my dear friends, 
my best friends. I do not feel equal to talking this matter 
over with any one who may come to bid me good-bye, and 
I want you, if possible, to stand between me and the ques- 
tions and remonstrances that I shrink from meeting. Ex- 
plain my motives to my friends if you think best, but beg 
them not to speak to me on the subject.** 

“We will do that willingly, and if there is any other way 


In the Toils. 


SO 

in which we can serve you, you have only to let us know 
it.” 

A few inquiries with regard to her plans, a few more kind 
words of counsel and sympathy, and Esther took leave of 
these friends of many years. 

We must now pass over, as briefly as possible, the week 
that intervened between this time and the day of their de- 
parture. Their home was sold forjten thousand dollars ; as 
good a price as it would have commanded under any cir- 
cumstances. In addition to this sum Esther made arrange- 
ments to take with her a small portion of her own money, 
but the bulk of her fortune, amounting to over one hundred 
thousand dollars, was invested according to her previous de- 
termination. She did not see Harwood while these arrange- 
ments were being made, and her husband was not very 
communicative with regard to him, but she gathered enough 
to know he was disappointed by the smallness of the amount 
he had captured with his convert. He accepted the situa- 
tion, however, with a good grace, and in one respect and 
only one as Esther thought, proved himself a safe and wise 
counsellor. He had taken the journey which they contem- 
plated, so often, that he was able to give and did give valu- 
able advice with regard to the preparations they should 
make. They were to go by rail and steamer to St. Louis, 
and thence up the Missouri to Florence, a settlement a few 
miles north of the present site of Omaha. Here they were 
to join a company of Mormon emigrants, and with them 
make the long trip across the plains. 

Money is a wonderful leveller of dififlculties, and in the 
short space of a fortnight all the arrangements for a journey 
of nearly three thousand miles were completed. 

And this journey, be it remembered, differed somewhat 
from the trip across the continent which the tourist now 


In the Toils. 


SI 

makes in a week, without leaving his palace car and without 
missing any of the comforts of his home. 

They must start in June to be sure of reaching their desti- 
nation before winter, and must endure hardships, and en- 
counter difficulties and dangers of which the traveller of to 
day can form only a faint idea. 

Winnie was perhaps the only member of the family who 
was thoroughly interested in the details of their journey, or 
the preparations that were being made for it. Her mother 
had been careful not to allow her to hear anything about 
the Mormons, so there was nothing to dampen her delight in 
the prospect of seeing the beautiful and wonderful country 
to which her father told her they were going. 

Mr. Wallace himself displayed some enthusiasm with re- 
gard to the great West, but his mind was too much absorbed 
in the new faith he had embraced to be very deeply interested 
in outward things. 

As for Esther, having once determined upon the course, 
she went through the ordeal of preparation for departure 
with a degree of outward cheerfulness that surprised her 
friends, but there was a dead weight upon her heart that it 
seemed to her she must carry forever. 

Through the kindness of her pastor and his wife, she was 
spared the pitying comments, as well as the expostulations of 
neighbors and acquaintances, and she was able to bid them 
all good-bye with no more display of emotion than though 
she had only been going away for a year. 

But there was one farewell she felt she must take when no 
human eye could look upon her. On the very last day that 
they spent in their beautiful home, and just as the sun was 
setting, she went alone to the little grave that held the pre- 
cious dust of the golden-haired baby that was taken from her 
arms to sleep under the violets. 

The mound, such a short one, was bright with summer 


In the Toils. 


5 » 

flowers, and the branches of the willows drooped low over the 
marble tablet that bore the inscription, “ Arthur, only son of 
Charles and Esther tVallace, aged nine months.” 

Her gaze lingered long on these words and on those be- 
neath : “ He shall bear the lambs in His arms and carry them 
in His bosom.” Then dropping on her knees and laying her 
face on the fragrant, flower-decked sod, she moaned, “ Oh 
my lamb ; my lamb ! my little baby that it was so hard to 
part with, why did I shrink from giving you up into His arms. 
You at least are saved from the evil to come. Good-bye, 
my baby, good-bye.” 

Only a mother can know the feelings with which Esther 
took this last farewell of the spot where her baby slept. 
None else could understand why it was harder to leave this 
little mound of earth, than the home where her happiest 
years had been spent. But the mother who has wet her pil- 
low with tears on many a winter night, because the baby 
that used to nestle safe and warm in her bosom must now 
lie under the snow, can realize the pain that wrung her heart 
at the thought of going so far away from the little grave she 
had watched and tended year after year. 

The sun had set and the shadows were gathering, but still 
Esther lingered until her husband came down the garden 
path seeking her. 

At the sight of the kneeling figure, so shaken with sobs, 
the first misgivings that he had felt with regard to his course 
oppressed him, and raising her tenderly in his arms, he 
asked : 

“ Is the sacrifice too great, dearest ? Have I asked too 
much of you ? ’* 

** No, love; but it is hard to go so far and leave my baby 
all alone.” 

“ We will not be going farther away from him. He is not 
here, we know, but safe in our Father’s house, and the pre- 


In the Toils. 


53 

Clous dust that we have watched over for years will be left 
in his care.*’ 

“ Yes, I know, and this pain will not last long I hope, 
but for a little while it seemed inore than I could bear to 
leave this spot.” 

As they walked back to the house, on this last night that 
they expected to spend under its roof, calling up many 
tender memories of the past, Esther could not help wonder- 
ing that the new and baleful belief which had taken hold 
upon her husband’s mind should retain its power over him, 
while in every other respect he now seemed himself again. 
She had avoided conversation on the subject hitherto, and 
to-night she shrank from anything that would jar upon his 
feelings in the softened mood in which he appeared, and so 
the only opportunity of winning him back was lost ; for, could 
Esther have looked into her husband’s heart as he stood 
by his child’s grave, she would have seen a relenting of pur- 
pose and rising doubts as to whether the call he was obey- 
ing at so great a cost was indeed Divine. 

The next morning found them in the midst of the hurry 
of their final preparations for departure. Elder Harwood 
came to the house, for the first time since his visit in May, 
with offers of assistance. He accompanied them to the cars 
and said as he took leave of them : 

“ I may meet you at Florence, but I am not certain. At 
any rate, I will have the pleasure of meeting you in Salt 
Lake City this winter.” 

His manner to Esther throughout was one of deferential 
courtesy, and for her husband’s sake she did not wish to 
treat him with positive rudeness, but she was heartily 
glad when the cars bore them away from the spot, and she 
was free from the night-mare of his presence. Once, just 
before starting, she saw his glittering eyes fixed on Winnie 
in a way that reminded her of her dream, and involuntarily 


54 


In the Toils. 


she drew the child towards her and threw an arm around 
her to shield her. 

Their journey to St. Louis was not marked by any inci- 
dent worthy of notice, and was not specially enjoyed by 
any of the party except Winnie, to whom the voyage down 
the Ohio was as full of wonders as a trip to Fairy-land. 

At St. Louis they stopped long enough to purchase teams 
and wagons for the transportation of their goods across the 
plains, and a carriage for their own use. The steamer upon 
which they took passage up the Missouri was small and 
crowded. The navigation of this river is attended with con- 
siderable difficulty at any time, as those who have tried it 
know to their cost, and at low water can only be attempted 
by boats “ constructed,” as one veracious chronicler as- 
sures, us **to run anywhere the ground is a little damp.” 
Our travellers, making the trip in July, did not meet with 
the delays they would have experienced later in the season ; 
still their progress was sufficiently slow, and the discomforts 
of their crowded quarters made them very glad of the end 
of the voyage. 

Arrived at Florence they found that only the van of the 
emigrant company had reached the place before them. 
These were encamped just beyond the town, waiting for the 
main body. They were principally converts gathered from 
the Middle and Western States, and the appearance of most 
of them fully justified Aunt Eunice’s epithet of “ Pore 
white trash.” They were in charge of an Elder under whose 
preaching many of them had been converted ; a man with 
red hair, a red face, and a very loud voice. He was not a 
prepossessing individual, certainly, still Esther thought she 
would sooner trust him than Brother Harwood, and his blunt 
manners and rough speech were quite refreshing to her 
as contrasted with that gentleman s smooth ways and care^ 
fully worded sentences. 


In the Toils. 


55 


When explaining the mysteries of his faith, there was a 
peculiar twinkle in his small blue eyes which conveyed to 
an acute observer the idea that he was not very deeply im- 
pressed himself with the doctrines he taught, but in his re- 
lations to his people he seemed kindly and honest. He 
fared as roughly as the poorest, and was always leady to 
lend a helping hand to those who were in trouble. 

When the Wallaces arrived on the ground, he waited on 
them at once with offers of assistance, but was no more at- 
tentive to them in this or in any other respect, |han to the 
humblest of his own flock. Esther took note of this, and 
thought for the sake of his kindness to the poor and the 
lowly, she could excuse many things in Brother Daniels that 
undeniably needed the mantle of charity. She was destined 
to learn, before she had been many days in the Mormon 
camp, how much more she would have to excuse in Bro- 
ther Daniels, and in others than she had dreamed. 

Among the emigrants was a pale and rather pretty girl of 
about sixteen, who attracted Esther’s attention from the 
fact that she seemed entirely alone. She gave her name as 
Lucy Ferris, and was soon won by the kindness Esther 
showed her, to tell her story. She had been well brought 
up, and had received a tolerable education, but when she 
was twelve years old her mother died, and her father mar- 
ried a woman of violent temper, who ruled him and every- 
one else on the place with a rod of iron. Poor Lucy’s life 
was rendered so miserable by her step-mother’s tyranny, 
against which her weak-minded father never protested, that 
she more than once formed the plan of running away, and 
when the Mormon preacher came to their neighborhood 
and told of the happy homes that were prepared already in 
“ Zion ” for all who would embrace the new gospel, she re- 
ceived his words as a message from Heaven, and fled from 
her father’s house in the night, taking nothing with her but 


In the Toils. 


56 

the clothes she wore, to join him and his little band of con- 
verts. Since then Brother Daniels had provided for her, 
and brought her thus far on her way. 

“ But what will you do, my poor child, after you get to 
Utah ? ” asked Mrs. Wallace. 

“ Oh ! there are homes there for all, and even if there 
were none for me, Brother Daniels would provide for me, I 
am to be sealed to him as soon as we reach Salt Lake.” 

“ Sealed to him I What do you mean ? ” 

“ Why, y^u know, the gospel teaches that a woman must 
be saved through her husband. I have no husband nor any 
friend to care for me, so I am to be married to Brother 
Daniels for eternity, and in the Celestial Kingdom I will be 
his wife and he will save me.” 

“ Brother Daniels is not married then ? I thought I had 
heard him speak of his family.” 

“ Oh yes ! he has a wife and children in Salt Lake, but you 
do not understand. It is for eternity that I am to be mar- 
ried to him. It is a spiritual marriage.” 

““What position will he hold toward you then in this 
life ? ” 

“ He has not explained that to me yet. Indeed, it is only 
since we came here, that he has said anything to me about 
being sealed to him.” 

“ Lucy, I am afraid of this doctrine, which Brother Dan- 
iels preaches and you believe. If you go through a cere- 
mony with him, that makes you, as you say, his wife in eter- 
nity, his relations to you here will be such as must be very 
unsafe for a friendless and helpless girl like you.” 

“ Oh dear Mrs. Wallace,” said the girl earnestly, “ you 
don’t know Brother Daniels as I do. He is good in every 

way, and would cut his right hand off before he would harm 

»» 

me. 

“Well, Lucy, I only hope he may justify your good opin- 


In the Toils. 


57 


ion of him. I think myself he is well-meaning and kind- 
hearted, but if I were in your place, I would have him ex- 
plain fully what he means by a spiritual marriage, before 
promising to enter into one. You are a good girl, I be- 
lieve, and don’t want to do anything that you would not 
like your mother to know if she can look down on you from 
heaven.” 

“ No, no,” said poor Lucy bursting into tears, “ and if 
she were only here now to tell me what to do, I should be 
sure of going right. But I am all alone. T have no friend 
on earth but Brother Daniels, and if I should be disap- 
pointed in him I would not know where to go or what 
would become of me ; but I cannot believe he would wrong 
a poor girl who has left everything because she thought he 
came to her with a message from God.” 

“ We will hope he is not bad enough for that. I do not 
think he is, but, my poor child, you need not say you have 
no other friend. I will be your friend if you will let me, 
and if you fail to find a good home elsewhere, you will 
be welcome to one with me. In the meantime, I will 
speak to Brother Daniels myself about this new doctrine. 
I think he is honest enough to tell me just what he means.” 

Mrs. Wallace was anxious to carry out this promise to 
Lucy, for more reasons than one. In her own home she 
had heard vague stories about the Mormon practice of tak- 
ing more wives than one, but she had paid very little atten- 
tion to such reports. Now that she was going with her 
husband to make her home with the people against whom 
such things were alleged, the question of the truth or the 
falsity of these charges became of the greatest importance 
She had ventured to speak to her husband about the mat- 
ter once or twice before they had started, but he indignantly 
repelled the idea, and assured her that the whole thing was 
the coinage of some enemy of the Saints in the West, who 


In the Toils. 


S8 

wished to find a pretext for the outrage they had committed 
in driving those inoffensive people from their homes and 
forcing them into the wilderness. Lucy’s story convinced 
her, however, that there must be some foundation for the 
charges, and she determined to learn the truth from Bro- 
ther Daniels if possible. 

She did not find an opportunity of speaking with him that 
day, but on the next afternoon he called at the place where 
they were encamped to see Mr. Wallace. He and Winnie 
were both away, but would return, as she informed the 
Elder, in a couple of hours, and judging this to be as favor- 
able an occasion as she would find for conversation, she 
asked him to wait for her husband. 

It was not a pleasant task that she had undertaken^ and 
she found it rather difficult to state the question that she 
was so desirous of having answered. 

She did not like to use Lucy's name, but finally concluded 
it would be best to tell him without reserve what had passed 
between them so she said : 

‘‘Brother Daniels, I had a long talk with Lucy Fer- 
ris yesterday, on a subject that I would like to be enlight- 
ened about. She tells me that as soon as we reach Salt 
Lake, she is to become your spiritual wife, but she does not 
know exactly what that relation implies, nor do I, and as I 
am going to make my home among your people, with my 
husband and daughter, who must grow to womanhood there, 
I am as much interested in having this matter explained as 
Lucy is. Now, I do not know anyone except yourself to 
whom I can apply for information, and I rely on your kind- 
ness and candor for a full answer to my question. Will you 
tell me just what is meant by spiritual marriage, as practiced 
by the Latter Day Saints ? ” 

Esther thought that Brother Daniels' ruddy face flushed 


Im the Toils. 


59 

a shade deeper as she put this question, and his keen blue 
eyes were cast down as he answered ; 

“ It is a doctrine of our church that man is the head and 
savior of women, as Christ is the Savior of man. A woman 
is saved through her husband, and she must be married to 
him not only for time but for eternity, to obtain the benefits 
of the gospel. Marriage for eternity is far more important 
than marriage for time. This young girl, of whom you 
speak, I propose to have sealed to me for eternity, to insure 
her final salvation." 

** But you have a wife, have you not ? Would it not be 
better for Lucy to be sealed to an unmarried man ? " 

The Elder hesitated, and cleared his throat once or twice 
before attempting a reply to this. At length he said : 

“It does not become me to boast of my own attainments, 
but it is our belief that the higher a man ranks in the priest- 
hood, the greater will be the degree of exaltation which he 
can confer on his wife in the Celestial Kingdom. Now our 
unmarried men are very young, mere boys, in fact, and have 
not had time or opportunity to rise very high, consequently 
many of the girls who have come among us see the wisdom 
of being sealed to older men. Besides, there are more 
women than men in our church, so that it would be impos- 
sible for every single woman among our converts to be sealed 
to an unmarried man." 

“ Brother Daniels," said Esther, looking fixedly at him, 
“I have just one more question to ask, and I want you to 
to answer it honestly. If this girl, Lucy, is sealed to you 
for eternity, as you say, what will be her relation to you in 
this life ? ’* 

“ Mrs. Wallace, there are many of our missionaries who 
would evade that question, or give an answer not in accor- 
dance with the facts, and would think that our peculiar cir- 
cumstances justified them in doing so, but I will answer hon- 


6o 


In thk Toils. 


estly, as you have asked me to. If Lucy does not object, I 
will provide a home for her, take as good care of her as I 
possibly can, and make her my wife in every sense of the 
word. If, however, she cannot see this to be right, I will 
not attempt to coerce her, or to take any advantage of her 
friendless condition. My views may shock you very much, 
but I think I am man enough to act fairly toward a help- 
less girl. If Lucy does not wish to be my wife in this world, 

I will find a home for her in some good famil3% and she 
may marry a young man for time, but she will still be my 
wife in eternity ” 

“ Your views do certainly shock me, but I appreciate .your 
honesty and manliness, and only wish all your brethren pos- 
sessed the same qualities. If you are willing to talk freely 
on this subject, perhaps I may inquire further whether it is 
the general practice for girls who are sealed for eternity to 
men already married, to live with them as their wives in this 
world.?’* 

“ It is. * Most of the wives who hold purely spiritual rela- 
tions to their husbands are elderly women, who come here 
as widows, or who have been cast off by their families for 
embracing our faith. It is thought by us to be best for the 
young women that their spiritual husbands should also be 
their husbands for time. I will tell you my own history if 
you care to hear it, as it is also the history of hundreds of 
my brethren, and will serve to set this matter before you 
in a clearer light than any sermon on our doctrines could 
do. 

“My parents were Presbyterians of the most rigid type, and 
tried to train me up in the right way as they understood it, 
but I was a wild boy, and often gave them, I am afraid, a 
great deal of trouble. Religion, as taught in the catechism 
I was compelled to repeat, and the long sermons of the 


In the Toils. 


6i 


stem-faced old minister who filled our pulpit for more years 
than I could remember, had no attractions for me, and I 
vowed to myself many times that when I was once a man, 
and my own master, I would never darken the door of a 
church. 

“ I was about eighteen when I first heard the Mormons. 
One of their missionaries made a number of converts in our 
town, and I went to their meetings a few times, more because 
my father had ordered me to keep away from them than for 
any other reason, but the truths I heard there stirred my 
heart as nothing had ever stirred it before, and I made up 
my mind to cast in my lot with them. 

“ I was baptized secretly, but my father soon found out 
what I had done, and as neither persuasions nor threats 
availed to induce me to renounce my new faith, he turned 
me out of doors. 

“ I went at once to the missionary, who received me as a 
brother and gave me a home in his house, and from that 
day forward I shared the wanderings and the persecutions 
of the Saints. Soon after we settled in Nauvoo, I married 
a good and sensible girl, a great deal too good for me I 
thought her then, and I still think the same. We were very 
happy together, but the Saints had no rest in Nauvoo. The 
same spirit that animated those who drove us out of our for- 
mer homes possessed Ihe people there, and every man’s 
hand was against us. Troubles thickened around us and it 
soon became evident that we must fight and die for our 
faith where we were or be driven into the wilderness. 

“ It was during these perilous times that the doctrine of 
Celestial Marriage was first proclaimed among us, and then 
not openly. In our secret meetings our attention was called 
to the perils which attended us all, and the unprotected 
state of the females whose families had cast them off when 
they joined us, and counsel was given to have all the un- 


In the Toils. 


6i 

mairfed women sealed to men who could take care of them. 
My wife’s young sister was living with us at the time. Her 
parents were dead, and as she had no other home or friends 
I was counselled to marry her. 

“You, Mrs. Wallace, could not experience a greater 
shock, if such a command was laid upon your husband, than 
I did at first. Little Jane, who was only fifteen, had been 
to me like my own sister, or like one of my children. 

“ And then, hardest of all, was the thought of my wife 
who loved me so much better than I deserved. How should 
I ever tell her.? I pass over the miserable day and night I 
spent before I found courage to speak to her, and her an- 
guish when she knew all was terrible to see. But hard as it 
was for both of us, we dared not disobey a Divine require- 
ment. 

“ As for Jane, she was neither shocked nor distressed as 
I had thought she would be. She was only a child, and 
was accustomed to receive without question whatever she 
was taught, so I think without any misgivings on her part, 
she became my wife for time and eternity. She has always 
lived with her sister, and has been, on the whole much the 
happier of the two. Mary, my first wife, though a sincere 
believer in the doctrine that has cost her so much, has not 
yet learned to make the sacrifices demanded of her cheer- 
fully, and I can’t wonder at it. The only wonder is that 
our women bear as well as they do the heavy cross laid on 
them, and I own that the sight of Mary’s patient, sorrowful 
face almost breaks my heart sometimes.” 

He paused here, and wiped great drops of sweat from his 
forehead, while his ruddy color faded to a sickly pallor, and 
he seemed to be struggling with memories that overpowered 
him. 

Esther watched him as he sat silent thinking. 


In the Toils. 63 

“ There is good in him after all. Oh, for some power to 
cause the scales to fall from his eyes.’* 

After a few minutes he resumed : 

“ When we were driven from Nauvoo we crossed the plains 
with our brethren and sisters and made a home in Salt Lake. 
Here I was greatly prospered, and was continually urged to 
take another wife, as I was well able to support a large fam- 
ily. Two years ago I took a young English girl into my 
house. She was homeless, friendless, and penniless. I mar- 
ried her, gave her a good house to live in, and provided her 
with every comfort before I started on this mission. She 
has no children. Mary and her sister each have four. I 
think I love all my children alike, though my two girls that 
were born in Nauvoo in the happy days of my first marriage 
seem nearer to me on some accounts.” 

Here Esther felt strongly inclined to put a question that 
she feared might give pain ; still she thought it would do 
him no harm to probe his faith and test its soundness more 
fully, so she asked : 

“ Do you love all your wives alike ? ** 

“ Ah! Mrs. Wallace, that is a hard question. I treat them 
all alike as my religion requires, but my natural inclinations 
are not entirely subdued, and if I answer honestly I must 
say that Mary has the first place in my heart.” 

At this point their conversation was interrupted by the 
return of Winnie and her father, who had been out for a 
drive across the prairie. 

Mrs. Wallace thought that Brother Daniels looked re- 
lieved, as he saw her husband approaching, and she could 
not wonder at it, for the inquisition to which he had been 
subjected would have been trying to the feelings of a less 
sensitive man than the Elder showed himself to be. 

As Mr. Wallace hospitably insisted that their visitor 
should remain to supper, and afterwards found much to say 


64 


In THi Toils. 


to him about his own recent experiences, it was quite late 
before he took his leave, and Esther found an opportunity 
of speaking with her husband about the afternoon’s conver- 
sation. 

Remembering how positively he contradicted the reports 
she had heard of the peculiar marriage customs of the Saints, 
she expected that he would be still more shocked and sur- 
prised than herself, when he learned the facts, but thbugh 
he looked disturbed as she gave him Brother Daniels’ state- 
ments, in detail, they did not affect him as she supposed 
they would. 

After hearing all she had to tell he said : 

“ Brother Harwood never mentioned the subject of celes- 
tial marriage to me, so I cannot think that the Saints count 
it among the most important truths of the gospel. Brother 
Daniels is a good man, but as you can see, he belongs to a 
class from whom we may expect more zeal than knowledge. 
Since we came here, I have learned from him and others 
something with regard to the nature and object of these 
spiritual marriages, but I am certain that he lays altogether 
too much stress on the doctrine. You cannot possibly 
reprobate the practice of polygamy, as he admits it, more 
strongly than I do. It is one of those abuses that creep in- 
to the church through the weakness and blindness of human 
nature, but we must not reject the truth because of the er- 
ror that is mixed with it. Under the present conditions of 
humanity we will never find a body of believers who hold no 
mistaken views, and indulge in no erroneous practices. 1 he 
Latter-day Saints, as I am firmly convinced, hold more 
truth and less error than any other religious community on 
earth, and as they are likewise the only people who show 
their faith by their works, and endure all things for the gos- 
pel’s sake, I still feel called to join myself to them. I deeply 
regret the existence of plural marriage among them, but 1 


In the Toils. 


65 


am sure that when we get there we shall find it practiced 
principally by the class of people of whom Brother Daniels 
is a representative, and we need not afliliate with them.” 

“ But think for a moment,” said Esther, “ of bringing up 
our daughter in the midst of such surroundings. You know 
how impressible she is, and how easily influenced by what 
she sees and hears.” 

^ “ I will trust her mother's counsel and example to keep 

her from every snare. There is no danger of her being 
brought in contact with anything of the sort at home, and 
you can choose her associates outside of the family.” 

“ We are not certain that we can always avoid receiving 
the members of polygamous families into our house, and if 
spiritual marrriage proves to be an important doctrine among 
the Saints, you will doubtless be visited and admonished by 
the brethren with regard to your own duty in the matter.” 

“ Esther 1 ” He pronounced this one word so reproach- 
fully and looked so deeply hurt that she half repented of 
what she had said, but though she saw how shocked and 
wounded he was now at the bare suggestion that his breth- 
ren might think- it his duty to take another wife, she knew 
that the same idea if presented to him again and again in 
the name of the faith he had espoused, would soon grow to 
appear less repulsive, and for his sake, for her own, and for 
the sake of their child she was determined to have a clear 
understanding with him in regard to the matter, though at 
the cost of a little present pain. So without giving him 
time to protest against the possibility at which she hinted, 
she went on : 

‘‘ I have been told that the Mormon prophet is the hus- 
band of many wives. I meant to have questioned Brother 
Daniels to-day as to the truth of this report, but you can 
speak to him yourself about it. It does not seem reasonable, 
however, that plural marriage would be practised by the 


66 


In the Toils. 


people without his sanction, whether he sets them an exam- 
ple in the matter or not.” 

“ The prophet is only a man, and liable to make mistakes 
like other men. If he has erred so far as to give the name 
and state of wife to more women than one, I am sorry, but 
I would not on that account undervalue the good he has 
done, or reject the truth he teaches. David was a man 
after God’s own heart, yet he erred very sadly in this same ^ 
way, but we do not therefore throw aside his psalms.” 

“ I do not think Brigham Young could bring the excuses 
for indulging in such a practice to-day that David had some 
thousands of years ago, but what he does is of much less con- 
sequence to me than what you may do. My chief fear is 
that a long residence among this people may familiarize you 
with the idea of plural marriage, and make it less repellant 
to you than it is now.” 

“ Esther, I did not expect this of you, and I don’t think 
I have deserved it. I have been your husband eight years. 
What have I done, or failed to do, in all that time to weaken 
your faith in me ? ” 

“ Nothing, dear, I have trusted you all in all, and I don’t 
think the day will come when you will consciously wrong 
me. It is a change of views, not a change in heart, of which 
I am speaking. Your views have certainly changed greatly 
within the past few months, and in this very particular. 
One year ago you would have found a much stronger term 
than * erroneous ’ to desinate such a practice as plural mar- 
riage.” 

“ Well, Esther, if you think it possible for me to change so 
greatly as to forget the sacredness of my marriage vows, I 
will give you my solemn, written promise, here, to-night, 
never to enter into a marriage covenant with any woman 
save yourself.” 

“ No, Charles. If the promise you made when I gave 


In the Toils. 67 

the happiness bf ray whole life into your keeping does not 
bind you, nothing will.’* 

“ But I insist on raaking such a promise. I don’t want 
to be haunted by the thought that you are living in daily 
fear of my taking another wife.” 

And with something of the petulance of a spoiled child, 
Wallace withdrew in search of his writing materials. Esther 
looked after him with a sad smile. 

In a few minutes he came back with his bond in his 
hand. 

It was a legally worded document, covering about a page, 
and dated and signed in due formality. He asked Esther 
to read it and place it with her marriage certificate, and to 
please him she did so. He was too seriously offended, how- 
ever, to get over it at once, and for the first time in her 
married life, Esther laid her head on her pillow without her 
husband’s good-night kiss. 

There was pain enough for her even in this temporary 
estrangement, as any wife will believe. The night passed 
without sleep, and the next morning found her too ill to 
rise. 

The sight of her pale face touched a very tender chord 
in her husband’s heart, and with all the affectionate care 
that he would have shown in their honeymoon he tried to 
make her comfortable, and to efface unpleasant remem- 
brances. He did not, however, allude directly to the last 
evening’s conversation, nor did she, and the subject was 
not mentioned again during their stay at Florence. 

Two or three days after the above occurrence, the Eng- 
lish emigrants, for whom they were waiting, arrived in 
camp. They numbered over eight hundred, and embraced 
representatives of almost every class of the middle and 
lower orders of English society. A large proportion of the 
company were laborers and artizans with their families, but 


68 


In the Toils. 


mingled with these were many whose appearance denoted 
culture and refinement. Among the latter, Esther noticed 
particularly a lady whose delicate beauty and graceful man- 
ners made her seem strangely out of place in that motley 
throng. The morning after their arri-val her husband brought 
her to Wallace’s tent, with a request that they would per- 
mit her to remain with them until he could provide better 
accomodations for her than the emigrant camp afforded, Es- 
ther hospitably assured him that it would give them pleasure 
to have her stay, and Mr. Wallace accqmpanied the stranger 
to town. Left alone with her guest, Mrs. Wallace, in order 
to avoid more dangerous topics, led the conversation to 
England and the journey she had taken. The lady thought 
that in the country to which they were going there would 
be no room for regrets at having left England, or any other 
land no matter how fair. She had only been married six 
months, and her parents thought it hard to give her up so 
soon, but her husband’s home was in Utah, and besides her 
own heart was set on gathering with the Saints, Her hus- 
band, Elder Claude Sperry, had brought over most of the 
present company. He was young, the wife added with par- 
donable pride, but his converts were already numbered by 
hundreds. Among them were her sister, and a very dear 
friend of hers, both of whom had accompanied her and 
Claude on their journey to Zion. 

“ Only think, Mrs. Wallace.” continued the young enthu- 
siast, with kindling eyes, ” what a blessed privilege it will 
be for us who love each other so dearly to witness together 
the coming of our Lord. I have but one grief, and that is 
that my aged parents may miss the sight, but I will spare no 
efforts to bring them to Zion before the way is closed up. 
Oh ! if the world that lieth in wickedness could only see the 
truth, the plains that lie beyond us would be covered this 


In the Toils. 


69 

Bammer with the multitudes hastening to the valleys of the 
mountains.** 

“ Poor child/* thought Esther, “ what a rude shock your 
beautiful faith is destined to receive when you reach those 
valleys;” but she forbore to express her own views, and de- 
voted herself to making the day pass pleasantly for her 
guest. 

Towards evening Elder Sperry called for his wife accom- 
panied by her sister and the friend of whom she had spoken. 
Both the girls presented a fine type of English beauty, and 
possessed in perfection the fresh color and rounded outlines 
so often lacking among their American cousins. They were 
in high spirits and seemed far more eager to relate the am- 
using adventures they had met with during the day, than to 
discourse of the glories of Zion. 

Esther could not think that these gay, thoughtless girls 
were influenced by religious enthusiasm to undertake a pil- 
grimage to Utah, and before they left she surmised that one 
of them at least was more interested in the missionary, who 
had “converted ’* her than in anything else. While marking 
the coquetries which this young lady directed towards Bro- 
ther Sperry, she stole a glance at the fair, sweet face of the 
young wife, and saw there an expression of pained surprise ; 
a look as though a light had dawned to which she would 
gladly shut her eyes. It was an evident relief to her when 
her husband proposed starting for their camp, and as she 
took his offered arm she clung to him with a manner that 
seemed to imply she felt the need of guarding her treasure. 


PART I. — Chapter v. 

ACROSS THE PLAINS — “THIS NEW RELIGION IS NOT GOOD 
TO DIE BY “ — “ CANAAN A MORMON BISHOP. 

Two days after this the Mormon camp broke up, and the 
long march across the plains began. The people were di- 
vided into companies of hundreds, each company in charge 
of a captain. 

The missionaries seemed to have made the best arrange- 
ments in their power for the comfort and safety of their 
converts. Brother Daniels, in particular, exerted himself 
night and day to make suitable provisions for their wants, 
but the means at his command were small, and it was plain 
that the poor people must suffer greatly before their dreary 
journey was ended. 

In answer to a question asked by Wallace, Daniels said : 

“ All who are unable to pay their own way to Utah, are 
brought over by the church. We have what is termed a 
Perpetual Emigration Fund for this purpose, and it ought 
to be sufficient to provide better accommodations for all, 
and to supply a few comforts for delicate women and little 
children. The Saints both at home and abroad are taxed 
heavily to keep up this fund, and in Utah it is augmented 
by the proceeds of the sale of unclaimed property of every 
description. In addition to this, all persons whose emigra- 
tion expenses have been defrayed by the church are expect- 
ed to pay back the same with interest as soon as pos- 
sible. Still there never seems to be money enough on 


In the Toils. 


71 


hand to supply the people with the comm6nest necessaries, 
and there is much suffering among them on the way every 
year, and much sickness and death that might be prevented. 
It don’t become me to find fault with those who are called 
to administer the affairs of the church, but it does seem 
that there must be mismanagement somewhere.” 

Before they were two weeks on the road, Brother Daniels’ 
statements regarding the distress among the emigrants were 
abundantly verified; The wagons provided were only suffi- 
cient in number to carry the stores and baggage, both of 
which were scanty enough ; so most of the people were 
compelled to walk the whole dreary way. There were rapid 
streams to ford, rough mountain passes to climb, and the 
fearful alkali desert to cross, before reaching Zion, but no 
matter how toilsome the journey, they must depend on their 
own unaided strength to accomplish it. Only the aged and 
feeble women, and the very young children were allowed to 
ride at all, and numbers of these had to take turns in walk- 
ing a part of each day. 

The hardships of the journey, and poor and insufficient 
food, told upon the health and strength of many, and on 
the fifteenth day out they halted to make a grave for one of 
their number ; an old man who had left a comfortable home, 
and forsaken wife and children that he might see Zion be- 
fore he died. 

He was one of the English coiL'^pany who had been brought 
over by Elder Sperry, but that devoted missionary was not 
to be found when the dying man asked for him. 

He had made the journey thus far on horseback, in the 
capacity of escort to the young Mies already mentioned, 
and on this particular day he galloped on ahead in the 
morning with his fair charges, and had been some hours out 
of sight of the carriage^in which his wife tra veiled,, and miles 


72 


In the Toils. 


in advance of the lumbering, jolting wagon in whidh the 
poor old man lay struggling with death. 

Wallace’s carriage overtook this portion of the train when 
the sufferer was almost at the last gasp. To Esther there 
was something terribly inhuman in the spectacle that met 
her eyes, and with all the eloquence she could command 
she begged that the wagons might be stopped, at least long 
enough to allow the poor creature to die quietly. The 
driver answered surlily that he should have hard work now 
to reach their camping ground before dark, and applied the 
whip to his tired mules to urge them to greater speed, but 
at this moment Brother Daniels rode up, and seeing how 
matters stood he ordered the fellow to halt at once. 

He obeyed, though with a bad grace, and Wallace brought 
his carriage as near as possible, intending to take the sick man 
into it if he could bear moving. Brother Daniels, however, 
thought it would be better not to disturb him by making the 
attempt, as in all probability he could not live more than 
an hour. 

The old man, as they gathered around him, made an ef- 
fort to speak but failed. His dim eyes wandered from one 
kindly face to another with a look of pitiful entreaty, but he 
strove in vain to articulate a single word. Esther poured a 
few drops of brandy into a little water, and her husband 
raised his head and held it to his lips. He swallowed the 
draught and seemed to revive a little. 

“ Is there anything we can do for you ? ” Esther asked, 
bending to catch the answer. It came, faintly spoken, and 
with long intervals between the words. 

“ This new religion is , not good to die by. Will not 
somebody tell me about ‘ whosoever believeth on Him?’*' 

Slowly and reverently Esther repeated : 

“ God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten 


In the Toils. 


73 


Son, that whosoever believeth on Him should not perish but 
have everlasting life.’* 

“ Whosoever believeth on Him,” the dying man said again. 
** If I had only remembered that I should be at home now. 
I could have believed on Him there. Oh ! my poor wife.” 

A momentary convulsion passed over him, then he said 
more feebly, “ Pray,” and with all her heart Esther did pray 
for the soul groping in the dark, seeking something better 
than this faith that “ was not good to die by.” 

A gray pallor settled upon the pinched features as the 
last earnest petition was uttered. The labored breathing 
grew fainter, and without a struggle the spirit passed away, 
let us hope to Him who has promised rest to all the weary 
and heavy-laden. 

The sun was now setting, and the few who had lingered 
beside the dying man found themselves left far behind their 
companions. It would not be safe, they knew, for them to 
be overtaken by night there alone, so by Brother Daniels’ 
direction a shallow grave was hastily dug, and the body 
lowered into it. 

No prayer was offered, no burial service read, and Esther 
thought with a shudder as chey turned away from the spot, 
that it might be her fate, or the fate of those she loved, to 
be buried in the same way before the journey ended. 

“ Let us get away from here,” said Wallace, “ This is too 
horrible.” 

He drove very fast, and in moody silence until they reached 
the encampment. 

Winnie, who had never been in the presence of death be- 
fore, except on that dimly-remembered day when her baby 
brother slept and would not wake, clung trembling to her 
mother. Aunt Eunice, after the single fervent ejaculation: 
” De Lord hab marcy on sech misable critters,” became si- 
lent as the rest, but in her heart she vowed that she would 


74 


In the Toils. 


bury her dear master and mistress like Christians, with her 
own hands, should they die by the way. 

That night while their supper was cooking by the camp- 
fire, word was brought to Esther that Mrs. Sperry wished to 
see her. 

She found her lying in her carriage, supported by pillows, 
and looking sadly changed since the day they spent together 
at Florence. 

She was deadly pale, as could be seen even by the dim light 
of the lamp that swung above her. There were dark circles 
under her eyes, and a look of hopeless suffering on the fair 
young face, that touched Esther to the heart. 

“ Sit near me,’* she said, “and draw the curtains close. I 
want to talk without being overheard.” 

When her request had been complied with, she went on: 

“You are not a Mormon, Mrs. Wallace? ” 

“ No, my husband has embraced that faith, but I never 
have, and never will.” 

“ Thank God for that. You at least will pity me then. 
Oh, Mrs. Wallace ! I have believed this new gospel with 
all my heart. I thought that the men who came to preach 
it were inspired of God, and my Claude, my husband — ” 

She stopped and covered her face with her hands,- 

When she looked up again, there was a fierce light in her 
eyes, and a bright spot burned in either cheek. 

“ I will tell you,” she cried, V he is my husband no longer. 
This accursed religion, as I have learned too late, puts a- 
sunder what God hath joined together. After we had left 
Florence, and he knew, and they all knew that I could not 
help myself, Claude ^egan to spend his whole time with 
Clara and my sister, neglecting me for days together, and 
when I spoke to him about it, he said, ‘ Oh, how can I ever 
tell you ? ’ He said I must not expect all his time and at- 
tention, for he loved Clara and Julia equally with me, and 


In the Toils. 


75 


as soon as we reached Salt Lake he expected to marry them 
both. I was struck dumb at first ; then, as soon as I could 
speak, I poured out a torrent of reproaches for his perfidy 
and cruelty. He let me talk till I was tired out, then told 
me' very coolly that if I had nothing more pleasant to say to 
him when he came to see me, he would take good care to 
keep away from me in future. He said that when we 
were once settled in Salt Lake, I would learn better than to 
make such an ado about his taking other wives ; that he not 
only meant to marry Clara and Julia, but he would have as 
many more women as he liked ; that the Latter-day Gospel 
commanded a woman to give other wives to her husband, 
and if she refused, he was to take them without her consent, 
and she would be destroyed for her disobedience, and finally 
he said I was a poor weak fool, and he could have married 
Julia instead of me in the first place, if it had not been for 
the money my aunt left me. 

“ I don’t think he meant to tell me this, but he got so angry 
at the last that he did not care what he said, and I have no 
doubt it was the truth. You love your husband, Mrs. Wal- 
lace, and can form some faint idea of what I suffered when 
all my faith and hope, my happiness, my whole life, received 
this crashing blow. I did not simply love Claude, I wor- 
shipped him. He was more to me than God, or my own 
soul, but I am bitterly punished for my sinful idolatry. 

Then the religion which had come to me as a direct reve- 
lation from Heaven ; was . that a lie too ? I hoped at first 
that Claude had not spoken truly, when he said his wicked- 
ness was sanctioned by the new gospel, and that same day 
I found an opportunity to speak with Brother Daniels about 
it. My talk with him brought me small comfort. He owned 
that he had three wives in Salt Lake, and was about to take 
a fourth. He was very kind and true to set the matter be- 
fore me in a different light from that in which Claude had 


76 


In thb Toilsl 


presented it. He said it was a heavy cross for men and 
women alike, it must be borne, in order that we might 
be purified here and saved in eternity. 

“ He talked for more than an hour in the same strain, as 
though any amount of sophistry could make such a black 
crime appear white to a woman in her senses, and above all 
a wife, I have not exchanged a word with him since, except 
to answer some commonplace inquiries, nor have I spoken 
to Claude. 

“ Indeed, I have scarcely seen him. He makes good his 
threat to keep out of my way, and is far too deeply absorbed 
in his courtship to bestow a thought on me.*' 

“ Then you are quite alone ? ” 

“ I should be but for Sarah, the servant I brought with 
me from England. She has lived in our family a number of 
years, and is warmly attached to me, and she regards this 
abominable doctrine of celestial marriage just as I do.** 

“ And your sister has she deserted you too ? *’ 

“ She comes sometimes to ask if there is anything she can 
do for me, but she has enough conscience left to make her feel 
that she has wronged me beyond reparation, and she keeps 
away as much as possible. Poor Julia! She was such a 
good girl once, and loved me, I am sure, and I can’t* blame 
her altogether. I know well enough the extent of Claude’s 
influence over her, and the force that his specious reasoning 
has with her. I pity her too, for he will make her suffer some 
day, though not as I am suffering now.’* 

Here she paused and sank back on her pillow panting for 
breath. 

Esther begged her not to attempt to talk any more, and 
after dping what she could for her bodily comfort, left her 
with her servant. She did indeed attempt to speak a 
few consoling words to the betrayed and. deserted wife, 
to remind her that there was a love which endured when 


In thb Toils. 


77 


every earthly love failed. But the cruel wrong she had suf' 
fered was inflicted jn the name of the God in whom she 
trusted, and the very foundations of her faith were shat- 
tered. 

If the religion in which she had believed with her whole 
heart was a lie, could anything be true } And dark and des- 
pairing she turned her face away from the friend who would 
have comforted her, saying, “ If there is a God, I ask only 
one thing of Him and that is death." 

Inexpressibly saddened by what she had seen and heard, 
Esther returned to her husband and child. She did not 
speak of what had taken place, for besides the feeling that 
any allusion to the matter would be the betrayal of a sacred 
confidence, there was the thought, too dreadful to be en- 
tertained, that possibly the same fate might I)e awaiting 
her. 

She tried with all her strength to put this fear from her, 
taking refuge in the reflection that a pure and upright man 
like her husband could not be judged by the same standard 
as this Claude Sperry, who, by his own admission was a 
wretch utterly without truth or honor. Still in spite of all 
her efforts, the spectre, conjured up by the revelations of 
the past few weeks, continued to haunt her, and all that 
night while her husband slept as calmly as a child beside 
her, she strove in vain to banish the foreboding that a gulf 
deeper and wider than the grave would soon separate him 
from her. 

The next day s journey was marked by another revelation 
of the saintly character of some of the returning missiona- 
ries. Brother Daniels, who on the way was often the travel- 
ing companion of the’’ Wallaces, and who, barring his poly- 
gamous practices, was really esteemed by both of them, was 
riding beside their carriage, when they passed a covered 
ambulance, drawn by a very fine span of mules. There were 


78 


In the Toils. 


two men on the front seat, who from their resemblance to 
each other, might have been father and son, and a more un- 
prepossessing pair Esther thought she had seldom seen. 

The eldest of the two was considerably past the prime of 
life. His iron-gray hair hung like mane on his shoulders, 
his bushy eyebrows almost concealed a pair of small twin- 
kling black eyes, his face was thin and sallow, and every 
lineament expressed craft and cruelty. His long, lean hands 
made one think of vultures’ claws, and seemed ready to 
grasp anything within reach. 

His companion was almost his exact counterpart, the only 
noticeable difference being that the hair of the younger man 
was of inky blackness, while a mustache of the same hue or- 
namented his otherwise closely shaven face. 

The side curtains of the ambulance were rolled up, dis- 
closing a mattrass in the rear of the seat, on which lay a very 
old and decrepit woman. A young girl, apparently little 
more than a child, sat beside her. As the carriage passed, the 
girl turned her face toward them. It was a beautiful face, 
framed in heavy masses of golden hair, but pale and sad, and 
the large blue eyes had in them such a look of mournful ap- 
peal that Esther felt almost constrained to stop and ask if 
she could help her ; but the carriage rolled on, and the am- 
bulance with its occupants was soon out of sight. 

“ If I should tell you the history of those people, Mrs. 
Wallace,” said Brother Daniels, ** I fear you would have 
less faith than ever in our religion. I confess that their 
story, as I have learned it, is one of those things which 
shake my confidence, not only in human nature but in the 
power of the Gospel to change wolves into lambs. The 
men we have just passed are, as you may have surmised, 
father and son. The father is Elder Carman, a missionary 
just returned from England. The son is the husband of 
the young woman you saw. 


In the Toils. 


79 


“ Her husband ** interrupted Esther in amazement, “ Why 
she cannot be more than fourteen years old.” 

“ I don't suppose she is, but she is a wife nevertheless, 
and has been for some months. That bed-ridden old wo- 
man is her grandmother. She left England with her hus- 
band and this young girl, intending to make the journey to 
Zion by easy stages. The old man. Brother Leonard, was 
rich; one of the wealthiest converts, in fact, that we have 
made lately. When he decided to emigrate to Utah, he 
converted all his property into money, which he took with 
him. The party traveled under the escort of Carman, 
though why they should have chosen such a man passes my 
comprehension ; but the Elder is wise as a serpent, if not as 
harmless as a dove, and doubtless he made ‘them believe 
that the Lord has commissioned him specially to take care 
of them. On the way out, it is said, some matters came to 
light which caused the old man to distrust Carman, and 
when they reached St. Louis he decided to part company 
with him, but before he had made arrangements to do so he 
sickened and died very suddenly. Thus the poor paralytic 
old woman and the little grand-daughter Eva were left en- 
tirely in Carman's power. 

“ This may seem a strong expression, but you must re- 
memember that they had come on alone with him and were 
in a strange country — did not know a soul in the great city 
where they found themselves. Add to this the fact that the 
old woman's mind was shattered by her sickness, and that 
Eva knew no more of the ways of the world than your little 
Winnie, and you will be better able to understand what fol- 
lowed. 

** Carman had been joined at St. Louis by his son a day or 
two before the old man's death, and as soon as the funeral 
was over the Elder determined not to let such an amount of 
money as Brother Leonard died possessed of slip through 


8o 


In the Toils. 


his fingers, told Eva that she must marry James. The poor 
girl, terrified and distressed, went to her grandmother for 
help, but Carman had been before her, and persuaded the 
poor, weak-minded old woman that her salvation depended 
on the plan he proposed, and between them they forced her 
into the marriage. I don't know how her husband treats 
her, but if her face tells the truth her life with him is miser- 
able enough. She makes no complaint, for the very good 
reason that she never has an opportunity of speaking to 
any one, except in the presence of one or the other of the 
Carmans. 

“I travelled with them from St. Louis, and to my knowl- 
edge neither Eva nor her grandmother were ever left un- 
guarded for five minutes at a time. The money that Leon- 
ard left could not have amounted to less than $150,000, 
and as there is no one to dispute Carman’s claim to it, I 
presume it is all in his hands or those of his son.” 

“ You say that the girl and her grandmother are not al- 
lowed to talk with any one ; how then did those facts come 
to your knowledge ? ” Mr. Wallace asked. 

“ Oh, I was in St. Louis when the Leonards arrived, wait- 
ing for emigrants who were to go West under my. care. 
Brother Leonard met me there, and for some reason was 
very communicative about his affairs. In one of our talks 
he intimated that he had cause to be dissatisfied with Car- 
man, and meant to part company with him. It was only 
two days after this I was shocked by the news of his sudden 
death. When James Carman presented i)imself as Eva’s 
future husband, and she found that her grandmother 
sanctioned his proposals, she appealed to me in her despera- 
tion for help, but what could I do ? Her grandmother was 
her legal guardian, and if she chose to marry her to such a 
man I had no power to prevent it. 

“ Indeed, I had little time to consider what steps I should 


In the Toils. 


8i 


take, for the marriage ceremony was performed that same 
evening. 

“ I shall report the case to the President when we reach 
Salt Lake, and he may perhaps take some notice of it, but no 
one can tell. If the Carmans pay their tithing out of their 
ill-gotten gains, it will be all right anyhow, I suppose.*' 

“ Why Brother Daniels,” said Esther, “ you surprise me. 
“ I did not expect to hear you speak in such a way of your 
Prophet.” 

“ I am not finding fault with him particularly, but it seems 
that in our church as well as in others, wealth often screens 
its possessor from richly-merited punishment. Money cov- 
ers more sins than charity the world over — at least that has 
been my experience.” 

If our readers think the picture thus far presented too 
sombre, and lacking that skillful combination of light and 
shade which makes the work of the genuine artist, we beg 
leave to remind them that the fault does not lie with the 
narrator, who is not inventing incidents, but relating actual 
occurrences. Still there are redeeming features even in the 
practical workings of the system whose votaries we are fol- 
lowing in their weary march across the plains. 

Uncomplaining patience under suffering, self-denial for 
the sake of any faith, no matter how mistaken, and unhesi- 
tating obedience to whatever is recognized as the Divine 
will, must lift humanity into a higher plane, and the history 
of the Latter Day Saints furnished examples of self-sacrifice 
and heroic devotion that might be profitably imitated by 
the adherents of a purer faith. 

Besides, among the people whose fortunes we are por- 
traying, there were occasional exhibitions of native noble- 
ness and uprightness that formed a refreshing contrast to 
the treachery, cruelty, and rapacity of some of the leaders. 

Brother Daniels, aside from his mistaken obedience to 


8s 


In the Toils. 


the tenets of celestial marriage, was a thoroughly good man, 
the friend of the poor, the helper of the weak, and the un- 
compromising enemy of fraud and oppression. After list- 
ening to his emphatic denunciation of the Carmans, father 
and son, Esther took occasion to inquire what had become 
of Lucy Ferris, of whom she had seen very little during the 
journey. 

“ Oh! ’* said Brother Daniels, “ I thought you knew, or I 
would have told you about her before. While we were still 
at Florence, she came to me and asked me to explain just 
what was meant by celestial marriage, and I told her hon- 
estly just as I told you. I never saw any one appear so hor- 
rified. She turned so white I thought she would faint, be- 
fore I finished my explanation, and then began to wring her 
hands and wish she was dead. * Why, Lucy,* said I, ‘ if 
you cannot believe such marriage to be right you need not 
enter into one. I will find protectors for you on our jour- 
ney, and a good home in Salt Lake after we get there, and 
you may marry according to your own views, or remain sin- 
gle just as you please. I will take care that no one annoys 
or persecutes you on the subject.* You should have seen 
how she brightened up at that, and the very same day I took 
her to Brother and Sister Seagrove, a very worthy couple 
who have no children of their own.** 

“ They were greatly pleased with her and offered at once 
to take her under their care, and to make her a daughter if 
she was willing to stay with them. She has travelled with 
them thus far, and I notice that she now calls Mrs. Sea- 
grove, ‘ mother.* She has improved greatly in health and 
spirits, and is certainly much happier with him than I could 
have made her, even if she could have accepted plurality.*’ 

“ I am very glad to hear that,** said Esther, “ for I have 
felt anxious about her ever since we left Florence. She 
Bcemed to me so completely under the influence of the 


In the Toils. 


83 


teachings to which she had listened, that although her wo- 
man’s nature revolted from polygamy, I feared she might 
yet plunge into life-long misery through a false idea ot 
duty.” 

Brother Daniels winced a little at this, but he responded 
bravely : 

“ Well, Mrs. Wallace, to tell the whole truth, I must own 
I am glad myself that the affair has taken such a turn. I 
know Lucy would have been miserable as a plural wife, and 
I don’t want to make any more women wretched for life.” 

After this very frank avowal, the Elder, perhaps fearing 
that Mrs. Wallace would improve the opportunity by ask- 
ing inconvenient questions,* took leave of his companions, 
saying that he wished to speak to some parties ahead. 

Wallace looked after him a few moments in silence, then 
turning to his wife said : 

“ That man already sees his life to be a mistake, and he 
is surely to be pitied. He has taken plural wives for con- 
science sake, and I think he will be convinced before long 
that he must put them away for conscience sake, but I am 
afraid he will find the last step harder to take than the first.” 

“ It is to be hoped then,” replied Esther, “ that his breth- 
ren who are equally conscientious will profit by his experi- 
ence, and avoid taking steps so difficult to retrace.” 

A faint flush rose to Wallace’s cheek, indicating that he 
made a personal application of this remark, but he said 
nothing, and Esther continued : 

“ I am really thankful for our* acquaintance with Brother 
Daniels, for in spite of the serious mistakes he has made, 
there is enough real goodness about him to restore my faith 
in human nature ; a faith that has been sadly shaken by the 
experience of the past few days.” 

“ There are nettles everywhere, but smooth, green grasses 
are more common still,’* quoted Wallace, half to himself. 


84 


In the Toils. 


The next day and many days following were repetitions 
of each other. The emigrant train moved slowly forward 
over the immense expanse of rolling prairie east of the 
Rocky Mountains, seldom making more than fifteen miles a 
day. Those who had light carriages and good teams, and 
could have travelled faster, were forced to keep back with 
the main body for protection from the Indians, who were in 
sight along the whole route. When they camped for the 
night a strong guard was always set, and during the day 
armed outriders were continually on the lookout for the 
savages. But there were other enemies not to be kept out 
by an armed guard. 

Bad water and poor food caused much sickness among 
them, and death had thinned their ranks perceptibly before 
the journey was half accomplished. Again and again a por- 
tion of the train halted for an hour to make a grave for some 
one cf their number. Many of those who sickened and died 
were children, and the anguish of the mothers when the 
bodies of their little ones were thrown carelessly into the 
shallow trenches dug for the dead, was most pitiable. One 
poor mother held her dead baby in her arms, hidden by her 
shawl all day long until the train camped at night, making 
no sign lest it should be taken from her. 

But it was not until they passed the Rocky Mountains 
and entered the alkali desert that the climax of their suffer- 
ing was reached. Water, which had been scarce enough be- 
fore, was now almost unfit to drink when found, and they 
were obliged to make frequent forced marches to reach the 
bitter, brackish streams that threaded the plains at long in- 
tervals. Then the food provided for the emigrants began 
to fail, so that it was thought necessary to put them on half 
rations. Every exertion was now made to increase the 
speed of the train, and the sick and dying were plainly looked 
upon as burdens to be got rid of as soon as possible. When 


IN THE Toils. 


»5 

they had been about eight days on the desert, an old man 
named Hall, who was driving one of the teams, fell from his 
seat and the whole of the heavily-loaded wagon passed over 
him, breaking one of his legs. 

It was near night when the accident happened, and noth- 
- ing was done for him until they reached their camping- 
ground, when the broken limb was set by one of the party 
who had a little experience in surgery. 

The captain of the company grumbled audibly at the 
trouble the old man was likely to be, and the driver of the 
wagon in which he was placed said with an oath that he 
might better have broken his neck, but happily for himself 
he was accompanied by his wife and daughter, and was not 
allowed to lie uncared for as was the case with many other 
sufferers. 

On the evening of the second day after the accident, his 
wife went to one of the brethren who had a case of medi- 
cines, to ask for a composing draught for her husband, who 
was in considerable pain. 

“ Don’t you be troubled, sister,” he said, “ I’ll fix him up 
something that will make him sleep sound enough.” 

When the mixture was prepared, he carried it to the wag- 
on himself and gave it to Hall. 

Half an hour afterwards, the Wallaces, who were camped 
near by, were awakened by the shrieks of the wife and 
daughter. 

Wallace hurried to the spot and found the old man dead, 
his face distorted; his hands clenched, and his beard covered 
with foam. 

** Look ! ” cried the daughter, “ they have killed my fa- 
ther. The medicine they gave him made him wild, and he 
died in convulsions.” 

“ Hush girl,” said the harsh voice of the captain, who was 
standing by, “ it will be worse for you if you don’t learn to 


86 


In the Toils. 


hold your tongue.” Then turning to some of the men he 
ordered them to dig a grave at once. 

“ You are not going to take him from me now,” said the 
poor wife, ” you surely will not be so cruel.” 

** Cruel,” he sneered, “ you want u« to stay here, I sup- 
pose until we starve to death. Let me tell you that I com- 
mand this company, and I’m not going to risk all our lives 
for an old woman’s whim. Men, do as you are told, and be 
quick about it.” 

Wallace here ventured to interpose a request for a little 
delay, but though the captain answered him more civilly, he 
was not to be persuaded. 

I don’t think I’m anyway inhuman,” he said, “ but you 
see it ain’t possible to stay the train on account of people’s 
feelings. Here we are on the very worst part of the route, 
provisions running short, and no water for twenty miles 
ahead. We must be ready to start in the morning with the 
first streak of light, and it is better to bury the old man now 
than to wait half the night. It wouldn’t do his friends any 
real good to wait, and would only keep tired men from their 
rest.” 

An hour later it was all over, and the suppressed sobs of 
two broked- hearted women were the only reminders of the 
tragedy that had been enacted since the sun went down. 

To them alone the whole world had grown dark. Their 
fellow-travellers were absorbed in their own cares, or bowed 
down under the weight of their own sufferings, and little 
disposed to give attention to anything which did not immed- 
iately concern themselves. Still, there were a few who rem- 
embered the desolate widow, and during the remainder of 
the journey came to her sometimes with expressions of sym- 
pathy or offers of help. 

There were whispers too that there was something very 


In the Toils. 


87 


mysterious about Brother Hall’s sudden death, but none 
dare speak their suspicions aloud, for after the Captain’s 
stern warning to the dead man’s daughter, the people un- 
derstood well enough that they too were to hold their 
tongues, or it would be worse for them, and after all, what 
was one man’s death that they should dwell upon it? Thc’r 
dead were already numbered by scores, and the mountains 
that surrounded “ Zion ” were not yet in sight. 

True, it may have seemed to them sometimes, as one 
after the other dropped by the way, that “ Some one had 
blundered,” 

But if so, it was their part to bear the consequences of the 
blunder in silence. Brother Daniels’ assertion that much 
of the yearly suffering and death among the emigrants might 
be prevented, was borne out by the fact that those who, 
like the Wallaces, had comfortable carriages, and were 
abundantly provided for, had thus far escaped serious sick- 
ness, but among this more favored class there were sufferers 
whose ailments were beyond the reach of outward reme- 
dies. 

The young wife of Claude Sperry drooped from day to 
day, until at last she was unable to lift her head from her 
pillow. She prayed, for death as she told Esther, every day 
and hour of that wretched journey, but death does not 
always come at once to those who are weary of life. 

Her husband seldom came near her. He was too much 
absorbed in his love-making to have a great deal of time or 
thought to bestow on his dying wife. Perhaps, too, if con- 
science was not entirely dead, the sight of the wreck he had 
caused smote him somewhat. His wife did not want out- 
ward comforts, for her own means were ample, and abun- 
dant provision had been made for the emergencies of the 
journey. She had beside the constant care of her faithful 


88 


In the Toils. 


servant, who waited on her with an unselfish devotion sel- 
dom surpassed. 

Mrs. Wallace too did all in her power for her, but that 
was little. She would listen to all expressions of sympathy 
without reply, and the kind friends who felt such tender 
pity for her, ceased at length to speak of anything pertain- 
ing to her hopeless sorrow ; a sorrow beyond the reach of 
any hand but His “ who healeth the broken in heart and 
bindeth up all their wounds.” 

A few more days passed, and then the tired, travel-worn 
company were greeted by the welcome sight of the moun- 
tains that girt the Promised Land. To those who still re- 
tained the enthusiastic faith with which the journey was be- 
gun, the first glimpses of the Wasatch peaks was like a vis- 
ion of the gates and walls of Paradise, while to all the pros- 
pect of the near termination of their toilsome journey was 
hailed with the utmost thankfulness. 

New life seemed infused into man and beast, and the few 
remaining miles were quickly travelled. When the last as- 
cent was made, and the whole company stood upon the 
Western declivity of Emigration Canyon, the devout be- 
lievers in the new Gospel broke forth into songs of praise, 
and even those whose faith had been sadly shaken by the 
experiences of the journey, gazed with delighted surprise 
upon the picture before them. 

The beautiful Salt Lake Valley lay at their feet, threaded 
with sparkling mountain streams. Near at hand were tilled 
fields and laden orchards ; far away the Great Salt Lake was 
spread out like a sheet of silver, under the soft September 
sky, while at the base of the Western Mountains the blue 
waters of the Jordan — 

Ran through the gold and green of pasture lands. 

The city itself, with its broad, shaded streets and white- 
walled cottages, lay to the north, while other green and 


In the Toils. 89 

smiling valleys, links in a seemingly endless chain, stretched 
away to the south as far as the eye could reach. 

No wonder that the emigrants, tired and foot-sore, and 
with vivid remembrances of the desert over which they had 
journeyed, parched with thirst and faint with hunger, felt as 
the Israelites did when the wilderness was passed and they 
entered the borders of Canaan, 

A company of brethren from the valley had been sent out 
to meet them a few days before, and under their escort they 
reached the city just ‘at sun-set. 

Here those who had friends waiting for them separated 
from their companions, who were directed to encamp for the 
night in a large square set apart for the purpose in the heart 
of the city. 

There was one noticeable feature of their reception,which 
savored more of the wicked world outside than of Zion 
where all were brethren. The poorer emigrants, ragged, 
travel-stained and woe-begone, were left to shift for them- 
selves as best they could, while those whose appearance and 
belongings indicated that they brought money with them, 
were plied with hospitable invitations. 

The Wallaces were waited on by a number of prominent 
Saints, each one of whom would be delighted to have them 
make his house their home for an indefinite period. They 
finally concluded to go with Bishop Williams, a pleasant- 
faced, courteous old gentleman, whose snowy locks and flow- 
ing white beard covering his breast gave one the impression 
that a patriarch of antediluvian times had stepped down into 
the nineteenth century. 

The good Bishop’s residence was in the most pleasant 
part of the town. The house was large and built, like most 
of those they saw, of adoba, or sun-dried bricks. The 
grounds were enclosed by neat palings and on one side of 
the house there was a well-kept kitchen-garden, with a 


90 


In the Toils. 


thrifty young orchard in the rear. A buxom, middle-aged 
woman appeared on the porch to welcome them, and was 
introduced to the party by the Bishop as “ My wife Ellen.” 

“ Miss Ellen ” led the way into a pleasant parlor, where 
an old lady sat knitting. She rose slowly and feebly as they 
entered, and the Bishop presented his guests to his wife 
Elizabeth. 

Esther glanced involuntarily at her husband. For her 
own part she found the situation becoming embarrassing, 
but her confusion did not seem to be Shared by their enter- 
tainer, who opened a side door and called to some one in 
the next room. 

A young girl with a babe in her arms presented herself 
in answer to the summons, and was made known to the 
new arrivals by the patriarch as “ my wife Sophia.” 

Then the whole party sat down and the Bishop, after 
making a few inquiries about their journey, launched into 
an enthusiastic description of the glories of the Zion to 
which they had come. 

The subject was interesting to him, if not to his auditors, 
and Esther was beginning to fear that he would talk all 
night, when the old lady, who, as they surmised, was the 
first wife, and perhaps mistress of the household by virtue 
of seniority, checked him ipildly and intimated that their 
guests must be very tired and would want a little time to 
rest before supper. 

The Bishop apoligized for forgetting this, but added the 
hope that they had already found rest and refreshment in 
breathing the pure air of these valleys of the mountains. 

Then “wife Sophia ” was commissioned to show the Wal-^ 
laces’ to the guest chamber, while Aunt Eunice, who all this 
time had remained at the door with her arms folded, and a 
look of grim determination on her face, was directed to go 


In the Toili, 


91 


with “ wife Ellen,” but she only shook her head and moved 
a step or two backward saying: 

'Scuse me, I*se gwine to de kerridge to stay with my 
Missis* things ’till I’se wanted,” and before any one could 
intercept her she made a hasty retreat through the open 
door and took her seat in the carriage which was still 
standing at the gate, though the horses had been detached. 

The Bishop and his family looked after her in surprise, 
but Esther, glad that she had got out of the way without 
speaking her mind more fully, said: 

“ Never mind Aunt Eunice, she is a faithful servant, but 
a little peculiar. Let her keep guard over the bundles 
and carpet-bags for a while if she wants to.” 

There was another member of the party who was quite 
as apt to make inconvenient remarks as Aunt Eunice, and 
as soon as they were left alone in their room Winnie ex 
claimed! “ What a dreadful story-teller that old man must 
be! First he said that fat woman was his wife, then in the 
house he called the nice old lady his wife, and afterwards, 
the girl with the baby.’* “Hush Winnifred,” said her 
father sharply, “ little girls must not speak of old people in 
such a way.*’ Silenced, but not convinced, Winnie pro- 
ceeded with the task of getting rid of her outer wrappings 
resolving meanwhile that she would ask mamma what it all 
meant, as soon as ever she got a chance. 

■ During the process of dressing for supper, Mrs. Wallace 
found that she needed some articles from the carriage and 
dispatched her husband in quest of them. He found Aunt 
Eunice sitting bolt upright among their posession, keeping 
a vigilant eye on them but ever and anon glancing uneasily 
toward the house. When Wallace made his appearance 
she drew a long breath of relief and said: 

“You’s come den at last but where’s Miss Esther?** 


92 


In the Toils. 


“Up in her room, and she has sent me for the large 
satchel with her dresses and Winnie’s." 

“You don’t mean Massa Wallace, dat you’s gwoine to 
leave Miss Esther an* dat bressed lamb in de lion’s den de 
whole night." 

“ Now, Aunt Eunice," said her master in his most con- 
cilatory tone, “ don’t be unreasonable. We must stay some- 
where to-night, and this is as good a place as we shall be 
likely to find. Your mistress needs you, and you will make 
it very unpleasant for her if you act so strangely." 

“ Well, Massa Wallace, if you’s ’termincd on temptin’ 
de Lord in dis yer way, dere’s nuffin fur Aunt Eunice to 
do but to Stan’ by dem as she’s promised nebber to desart. 
I tole Miss Esther at de fust, if she’s called to go to de 
bottom ob de sea, I’se bound to go dere to," and with the 
air of one ready for martyrdom. Aunt Eunice gathered up 
her mistress’ belongings and followed her master into the 
house. 

When the Wallaces were called to supper they found a 
bountiful repast spread out before them, but only the old 
lady and Sophia sat down with them and their host, while 
“Wife Ellen” and a young woman whom they supposed to 
be a servant waited on them. 

After supper as they rose to leave the room a troop of 
boys and girls filed in and took their places at the table. 

“ You have a fine family Brother Williams," Wallace 
ventured to remark, “ are these all your children ?’’ 

“ They are the children of my wives, Ellen and Han- 
nah," indicating by k wave of his hand the young woman 
who had served at supper. “ Elizabeth’s children are all 
grown up and Sophia has none, except the little one in her 
arms." 

The evening’s conversation turned upon the doctrines 


In the Toils. 


93 


and practices of the saints, and was sustained chiefly by the 
Bishop and Mr. Wallace. 

Esther did not think it wise under the circumstances 
to volunteer a statement of her own views, and the two 
wives present took no part whatever in their Lord s exposi- 
tion of the latter-day gospel, seldom speaking on any sub- 
ject unless directly addressed. 

The younger woman occupied herself with her baby 
while the old lady knitted steadily and silently, scarcely 
raising her eyes. 

As she sat thus, Esther’s gaze was drawn almost irre- 
sistibly to the pale, wrinkled face, bent low over the bright 
knitting needles. 

What a history hers must have been ! 

Wedded in her fair, fresh girlhood to the man of her choice, 
the first years of her married life might have been as cloud- 
less as those of the beautiful woman who sat watching 
her. Then Esther pictured to herself the introduc- 
tion of the New Gospel into their once happy home 
the severing of early ties, and the Western pilgrim- 
age undertaken in obedience to the behests of their 
faith. The measureles anguish the wife must have endured 
in later years, when with the sons and 'daughters she had 
borne her husband growing up around her, she was com- 
pelled to yield her place in his house and heart to another, 
was not a matter for idle speculation. Whatever the suffer- 
ings of the past had been, the still face told no tales. It 
was as immovable as the face of the dead. 

Only once throughout the evening did she give the 
slightest sign of emotion, and that was when her husband, 
in detailing his experiences, said : 

“ My elder sons, I am sorry to tell you, have fallen away 
from the faith they were brought up in. After they grew 
to manhood they became very restless under the restraint 


94 


In the Toils. 


the Gospel imposes, and when we came to Utah they went 
on to California. I have east them out of my heart entirely, 
for they who are not for us are against us, even though they 
may be of our own household. 

At this cruel speech the aged mother s hands trembled 
violently, and her features contracted with a spasm of pain, 
but it was only for a moment, then th^ fixed expression re- 
turned and the knitting needles moved steadily and rapidly 
as before. 

Esther felt as though she was in some torture chamber of 
the Inquisition, a spectator of the agonies of a silent victim, 
who would neither confess nor recant, and it was an inex- 
pressible relief to her when their host, with a polite apology 
for keeping them up so late, lighted their bedroom candles 
himself, and wished them a good nights rest. 

“Winnie had already been asleep for an hour with her 
head on her mother’s lap, and the whole party were tired 
enough to appreciate the soft ample beds, that looked so in- 
viting after the many nights they had spent on the narrow 
mattress in their carriage. 

In spite of sharing to some extent Aunt Eunice’s feeling 
that they were in the lion’s den, Esther was so overcome by 
weariness that she slept soundly until morning, never even 
dreaming of the perils that environed her, and when she 
asked her husband, on waking, how he had rested, he an- 
swered : 

“ Never better in my life. I shall have to admit the 
soundness of Brother Williams’ idea that there is rest and 
refreshment in breathing the air of this valley.” 

“ I am afraid we shall find the spiritual and moral atmos- 
phere less refreshing,” returned Esther, “ for my own part 
I felt nearly suffocated last evening in the society of that 
old man with his three or four wives.” 

“ Speak lower dear,” said Wallace with an apprehensive 


In the Toils. 


95 


glance tovirard the bed in which Winnie slept, “ I own I am 
sorry that our first night in Utah should have been passed in 
such a place, and especially on that child's account ; she 
sees and hears everything, but we need not remain here 
many hours. I am determined to have a house of my own 
before night if there is one to be bought for money in Salt 
Lake. 

True to his purpose, Wallace started out immediately 
after breakfast with* Brother Williams as a guide, in search 
of a residence, though the latter insisted that there was no 
need of such haste, as it would give him pleasure to have 
them remain his guests as long as they would. 

Esther, left to herself in the polygamous household, asked 
permission to spend the morning in her room where with 
the help of Aunt Eunice she occupied herself with the ar- 
Tangement of their^wordrobe. She devised this employ- 
ment chiefly for the purpose of keeping Winnie out of the 
way of the family during the day, as she feared that very 
plain-spoken young lady would give serious offence to their 
entertainers by the frankness with which she would be sure 
to express her views. 

Aunt Eunice was ready to explode with suppressed disgust 
and wrath, but she had “put a lock on her mouth,** as she 
informed her mistress and kept silent thus far. 

The day passed quietly enough, the women of the house- 
hold being occupied with their domestic affairs, and the 
Bishop and Mr. Wallace away. When they returned in the 
afternoon Wallace brought his wife the welcome inteligence 
that he had succeeded in making a bargain for a place that 
they could take possession of immediately. Their host 
urged them to remain another night at least, but they de- 
clined, pleading the necessity of unpacking their goods as 
soon as possible, to save them from injury. 

Mr. Wallace's purchase consisted of two lots, on one of 


96 


Ik thx Toils. 


which has a small but well-built house. Here Esther thought 
they could make themselves quite comfortable until Spring, 
when Wallace said he would build on the other lot, and 
here they brought their household goods at once. 

Brother Williams, who had accompanied them and offered 
his services to assist in unpacking, observed, as they were 
admiring the neatness of the little house : 

“ This place will do nicely for your second wife. Brother 
Wallace, when you get your new house built.’* 

Wallace drew himself up haughtily. • “ The house will 
never be needed for such a purpose” he said, “and I must 
beg of you not to make any more remarks of such a nature 
in the presence of my family.” 

“ Oho ! that is the way the wind sets is it,” said the 
Bishop laughing good-naturedly, “ well brother, I meant, no 
offence I assure you, but I see we must give you a little time 
to get used to our ways.” 

Esther flashed a bright glance at her husband; she had 
a good cause to be proud of him yet ; while Aunt Eunice 
with an ominous scowl on her ebony features, rattled the 
furniture about in a manner that boded c.o good to the 
Bishop if he c^^d but have understood it. 


PART I. — Chapter ti. 

“latino on of hands” — THE WARNING — THE EAVES- 
DROPPER — BROTHER DANIELS WAVERING IN THE FAITH. 

In the course of a week the Wallaces were comfortably 
settled in their new home, which they found even more 
pleasant than they anticipated. The former owner of the 
place h^d set out fruit and shade trees in abundance, and 
the little plat of ground in front of their house was bright 
with late flowers. In doors, everything was neat and cheer- 
ful. The rooms, though small, were convenient, and after 
being fitted up with various articles which they had brought 
with them, “looked like home,” as Winnie delightedly 
asserted. 

During the rather tedious process of “ getting to rights,” 
they had a number of calls, but Aunt Eunice met the visit- 
ors at the door with the announcement that the mistress 
was too busy to see company now, and would be glad to 
have them come again after they were settled. The breth- 
ren who came to see Wallace in the evening, however, were 
not to be turned away so easily. Some of them were the 
great ones of the church, the leaders whose word was law, 
and Esther, watching them as they conversed with her 
husband, could not but wonder how they obtained their 
ascendency over the people. They appeared to be, for the 
most part, men of little talent and less culture, and almost 
without exception, bore on their faces the stamp of a coarse 
and violent, or a brutal and sensual nature. 


98 


In the Toils. 


How Charles Wallace, intellectual, refined and sensitive, 
could fraternize with those men was inexplicable, yet when 
they d^»scanted on the mysteries of their faith, and told of 
the visions and revelations with which the Lord had favored 
“ this people,” he listened as to a message from Heaven. 

One of the brethren known as Elder Richards, made the 
gift of healing his especial theme, asseverating that the 
words “they shall lay hands on the sick and they shall re- 
cover,” were being literally fulfilled day after day, not only 
here in Zion, but in all parts of the world where the preach- 
ers of the new gospel found believing hearers. There were 
no physicians in these valleys of the mountains he said, 
because none were needed. When any of their people were 
sick they obeyed the Apostolic injunction to call for the 
Elders of the church to pray and lay hands on them. 

“And do your sick recover without the use of medicines 
under this treatment,” asked Wallace. “Always,” answered 
his visitor impressively. “Or,” he added after a pause, 
“ If they are not healed it is because of their own lack of 
faith. You know we are told in the scriptures that there 
were places where even the Saviour of man himself could 
not do many mighty works because of their unbelief. 

The next evening after this conversation. Elder Richards 
called early, and invited Wallace to go with him and witness 
the healing of a person in the last stages of consumption. 
The invitation was at once accepted, and if the Elder had 
profited at all by his opportunities for the study of human 
nature, he must have seen, from the rapt expression on the 
new convert’s face, that no miracle could be claimed for 
the new gospel which would go beyond his belief. 

The scene of the proposed cure was a humble cottage 
more than a mile away, on the outskirts of the town. When 
they reached the house, they found a number of the breth- 
ren assembled. The place was dimly lighted by a single 


In the Toils. 


99 


tallow candle, and when they entered the door they could 
barely discern, through the gloom, a bed in the farther cor- 
ner with the figure of a woman bending over it, but the rat- 
tling breath of the patient was plainly audible, even above 
the woman’s loud sobs. 

Elder Richards pushed his way across the room to the 
bedside, whispering to Wallace to follow. The sick man 
lay back among his pillows, seemingly unconscious, and 
with the stamp of death, as Wallace thought, already on his 
face. 

As the Elder took his place by the bed, a silence fell 
upon the company. The woman hushed her sobs, and all 
waited reverently for the invocation of the Healing Power. 

Wallace looked on with awe, while the ceremony of 
anointing with oil in the name of the Lord was performed. 
In the mood in which he was then, it would have been no 
surprise to him if a voice from heaven had uttered the 
words, Thy faith maketh thee whole,” so when the Elder, 
concluding his prayer with his hands resting on the sick 
man, pronounced him healed, it seemed quite a matter of 
course that he should raise himself unaided from his pillow, 
as he did, and in a clear and natural voice give thanks for 
his restoration. 

Any one a little more inclined to skepticism would have 
noticed that all the circumstances of the supposed cure 
were such as to favor deception, and that the whole scene 
was one which might have been gotten up with very little 
effort, for the purpose of imposin g upon a credulous disci- 
ple. 

Wallace himself had doubtless witnessed better acting on 
the stage, but he had come to the place fully satisfied that 
a miracle was to be performed, and he was not in a frame of 
mind to demand proofs that the sick was healed by Divine 
power. Still, somehow, when he reached home he did not 


lOO 


In the Toils. 


feel inclined to tell his wife of the “ miracle/’ and replied 
to her questions on the subject as briefly and evasively as 
possible. 

He could scarcely have told why he did this; perhaps it 
was only because he dreaded the fire of keen cross-ques- 
tioning that would have followed his statement cf what he 
had witnessed, but of late he seldom spoke to. Esther of 
anything connected with his new faith, and as that occupied 
his mind to the exclusion of almost everything else, it 
came to pass that confidential talks between the husband 
and wife on any subject were very few. It was the begin- 
ning of the end, 

** The little rift within the Lute.” 

Esther felt this, and the sense of utter desolation which 
came with the knowledge that she no longer shared her 
husband’s thoughts, or possessed his confidence, would have 
crushed even her strong spirit, if she had not been sustained 
by the hope that he would yet come to himself, and cast 
aside the delusion that must otherwise prove the bane of 
both their lives. 

Again, when she was tempted to exclaim, “ My burdens are 
greater than I can bear,” she schooled herself to patience 
by the thought of those around her whose lot was incompar- 
ably more bitter than her own. The face of the aged 
woman whose silent misery she had witnessed on the night 
of her arrival still haunted her, and she could not forget 
the wistful, pleading eyes of the girl, Eva, though seen only 
for a moment. 

But above all, the fate of the belrayed wife of Claude 
Sperry made her own sorrows seem light. A few days after 
they were settled in Salt Lake, her faithful servant Sarah 
brought them the news of her death. 

Deserted by all except this one humble friend, the heart- 
broken wife breathed her last without receiving one token 


In the Toils. 


lOI 


of tenderness from the man who had vowed to love and 
cherish her, or one sign that she was remembered by the 
sister, who for a whole lifetime had shared her every 
thought. 

Just two weeks from the day of her death there was a 
double bridal. The bereaved and sorrowing husband was 
united in marriage to the equally afflicted sister and her 
friend Clara. And the man who furnished this example of 
utter heartlessness and baseness was a High Priest of the 
religion Esther’s husband had just espoused, in favor with 
the leaders of the people and applauded by them for “ris- 
ing above human weakness,” — that is to say for proving 
himself without either heart or conscience. 

Before they had been in Salt Lake many weeks, Es- 
ther had an opportunity of learning that Father Belden’s 
charges against the Mormons, and his fears that she and her 
child might be made, as he said, the victims of their bar- 
barous creed were not without foundation. Among the 
neighbors who called on them in their new home was a Mrs. 
Nye. This lady was, like herself, from New York, and Es- 
ther was not long in discovering that she had little sympa- 
thy with the belief or practices of the Saints. 

One afternoon, as it happened, Mrs. Nye came in when 
she was quite alone. After ascertaining this fact, and giv- 
ing a cautious glance from the window, she drew a chair 
near her hostess and said in a low voice : 

“ Mrs. Wallace, I have been waiting some days for an oppor- 
tunity to give you a word of warning. It is well understood 
here that you are not a Mormon, and to my certain knowledge 
your husband has been counseled to compel you to be bap- 
tized or else give you up and take another wife in your place. 
You are a stranger here and don’t know what fate would 
overtake you if your husband should put you away for such 
a cause, and if I should tell you, you might find it hard to 


102 


In the Toils. 


believe me. Yet great as your danger is, I cannot advise 
you to do as I did.’* 

She paused a moment, and looked out of the window 
again to make certain that there was no one in hearing and 
then resumed: 

“My husband embraced Mormonism in New. York, 
and soon after his conversion made up his mind to emigrate 
to Utah. I loved him too well to give him up, and I came 
with him. We had not been here more than a week before 
he was waited on by some of the Elders of the Church, and 
commanded to put me away unless I would consent to be 
baptized. I had learned enough in our journey to know 
what my fate would be if my husband forsook me. I had 
one little child and life was sweet. Alone, I might have 
braved death, perhaps, but with my baby in my arms I could 
not. So, though my whole nature revolted from the teach- 
ings of Mormonism, I suffered myself to be baptized, and 
perjured my soul by taking on my lips the vows they exact- 
ed of me. I have never known a happy hour since, and 
after all I have gained little by my sin, for I have always 
stood out against ‘counsel;’ — that is to say, I would not 
consent to my husband taking other wives, and as for him, 
poor fellow, I must do him the justice to say he has always 
refused to take them without my consent. For this we have 
both been marked, he as weak in the faith, and I as rebell- 
ious, and we have been made to suffer every thing that the 
malice of priesthood could invent. I will give you just one 
example of their dealings with those who disobey counsel; 

“ A few weeks before my third child was born, my hus- 
band gave serious offence by declining to marry the niece of 
our Bishop. He must be punished in some way and so he 
was ordered out of the Territory on a three year’s mission. 
He did not have a dollar to leave with me, as those who sent 
bim away knew very well, and the house which he was build- 


In the Toils. 


103 


ing to shelter us during the winter was only finished as far 
as the outer walls and roof, but that was too good a home 
for a rebellious wife, and two weeks after my husband left, 
our house and lot were sold by the city authorities for six 
dollars' tax, which they claimed was due. 

“ I should have been left to perish on the street with my 
little ones, but for the humanity of a neighbor, who bought 
in the house at the sale and refused to allow me to be dis- 
turbed. 

“This same good and generous man, though far from rich 
himself, kept us from starvation during the winter, and when 
summer came I was able to earn bread for my babes, and 
we managed somehow to live through the three years of my 
husband’s absence. 

“I had watched for his coming as eagerly as any wife would, 
after such a separation, but his return was only the signal 
for fresh prosecutions. He has been home about a year 
now, and nearly every week during that time he has been 
visited by some of the brethren and reproved by them for 
his neglect of duty in the matter of taking other wives, and 
this generally in my presence. 

“Often these advisers are good enough to mention the 
names of different girls that he could marry if he would, and 
my own wickedness in withholding my consent to such mar- 
riages is denounced in language that I will not repeat. In 
addition to this, I have lately received two or three * warn- 
ings* in regard to my obstinacy, — notes slipped under my 
door at night; here is a specimen.** 

Mrs. Nye took from her pocket a dirty and crumbled slip 
of paper on which a rude representation of a coffin was 
drawn in pencil. Underneath was written “ Thus saith the 
Lord, the woman who refuses to give other wives to her 
husband,, she shall be destroyed. The time is at hand when 
the sword of the Lord will be unsheathed, not in word but 


104 


In the Toils. 


in deed ; therefore prepare to have your blood spilled upon 
the ground that sinners may take warning and Zion be 
purified.” 

Mrs. Wallace looked at the note a moment and then 
handed it back saying : 

‘ You don’t surely attach any importance to this scrawl ?” 

“Ah ! Mrs. Wallace,” replied her visitor, “no one but a 
stranger would ask such a question. Night after night, 
sitting alone in my home with my sleeping children, I have 
heard the stealthy steps of the church spies under my win- 
dows, and the slightest pretext such as would have been 
afforded by the presence of a suspected person in my house, 
or by overhearing any conversation that savored of dis- 
loyalty to the Prophet, would have converted these spies 
into murderers.” 

“But why have you not appealed to the law for pro- 
tection ? ” 

“ Law ! There is no law here but the will of Brigham 
Young. He is not only the absolute head of the church, 
but the Governor of the Territory, and every office from 
the highest to to the lowest is filled by his creatures, so you 
may judge what protection or redress the law as admin- 
istered by them would afford.” 

Mrs. Nye spoke with strong feeling, but still in suppressed 
tones, scarcely raising her voice above a whisper. Esther, 
hardly knowing whether to credit what she heard or to 
think her visitor demented, sat a moment in silence, and 
then asked; 

“ If, as I infer, you consider my life in danger under pres- 
ent circumstances,, what would you advise me to do ? ” 

“ Keep as quiet as possible. Avoid expressing your opin- 
ion with regard to any of the doctrines of the church, 
polygamy especially. If you can rely on your husband, 
there i$ no need of drawing the wrath of the Priesthood 


In the Toils. 


loS 

upon your own head by open opposition to their teachings.” 

“ If you can rely on your husband ! ” 

A few months ago Esther would have resented this as an 
insult ; now she thought, with a deadly sickness at her heart, 
of the gulf that was widening between them. 

Could she rely on him ? Even if his heart should not be 
turned from her, his mind was likely to be so warped by 
the teachings to which he listened, that he would think 
he did God service in forsaking her. The possibility was 
too dreadful to dwell upon, yet she could not banish it 
from her thoughts. At loss for words in which to continue 
a conversation that had become so painful, she rose mechan- 
ically, and walking to the window looked out as her guest 
had*done. The figure of a man, crouching behind a row 
of currant bushes at the back of the garden ^ and creeping 
cautiously toward the house, met her astonished gaze. 
Putting her finger on her lips, she beckoned to Mrs. Nye, 
who came forward and looking out said in a whisper: “ One 
of the police. They saw me coming here I suppose. We 
must sit down and talk loudly enough for him to hear on 
subjects that will not interest him.” 

Both ladies accordingly took a seat near the window 
and began a house-wifely chat on pickling, preserving and 
so forth. When these important matters had been fully 
discussed,' Mrs. Nye rose to go and Mrs. Wallace accom- 
panied her to the door. A careless side glance made them 
both aware that the spy had moved along to the corner of 
the house, to make sure of their parting words. It is to be 
hoped that theii: importance rewarded him amply. Here 
they are: 

(Mrs. Nye), If you’ll send over for some of my yeast 
Mrs. Wallace, I think you will say, after you have tried it, 
that it makes the best bread you ever ate.” 

(Mrs. W. ) ‘‘ Thank you, Mrs. Nye, I will send for it 


In the Toils. 


106 

certainly, for Aunt Eunice has been quite discouraged about 
our baking lately?” 

Esther staid out of doors some minutes after her visitor 
left, watching for her husband’s return. She was a brave 
woman, physically and morally, but the revelations to which 
she had listened were startling enough to unsettle the firmest 
nerves, and she shrank from sitting down alone in the little 
room where she could almost hear the breathing of the spy 
crouching under the window. 

The honest black face of Aunt Eunice, who turned the 
corner at this juncture, with her market basket on her arm, 
was a most welcome sight to Esther. Somehow, the pre- 
sence of this faithful servant was more reassuring to her 
than that of her husband, though she would not have ac- 
knowledged as much to herself even. 

As Aunt Eunice neared the house, the spy was endeavor- 
ing to make his way out as he had come, behind the row of 
current bushes, when her quick eye caught sight of some 
moving object, and to Esther’s consternation she picked up 
a large stone and hurled it in that direction with force and 
precision, crying out : 

“ Dere’s some sort ob critter in de garden Missus, a 
tramplin down de yerbs,” 

The “ critter ” instantly dropped out of sight, and when 
Aunt Eunice, after setting her basket down on the steps, 
seized a stick and rushed into the garden, in hot pursuit of 
the destroyer of her “ yerbs ” no living object could be 
found. 

“ I dare for’t Miss Esther,” she said, as she returned 
panting from her bootless chase, “ de berry same ole sarpint 
what de Good Book tells about, must a bin in de garden, 
fur sartin as I see you, I seed suthin black a creepin’ be- 
hind de bushes an* when I gits to de place dere’s nuffin’ in 


In thk Toils. 


107 


sight nowheres, an* no tracks *ceptin ob suthin* crawlin’ on 
de ground.” 

Esther did not controvert this view of the case, thinking 
it best for the present to keep the discovery she had made 
to herself. 

The next few weeks passed quietly enough. Mrs. Nye 
did not call again, her husband spent most of his time at 
home, and there was a cessation of the avalanche of visitors 
which descended on them the first month after their arrival. 

Whatever counsel Wallace may have received with regard 
to his marital relations, none but himself was the wiser for 
it. In his family he never referred to the peculiar marriage 
customs of the Saints, and a stranger might have supposed 
he felt no interest in them, but when Winnie, with a childs 
aptitude for putting awkward questions, asked him why the 
little girls next door, with whom she played, had to give 
away their papa, his face flushed and he avoided his wife’s 
eyes while he answered that he did not know. 

And when Aunt Eunice freed her mind, as she occasion- 
ally did, in relation to the polygamous practices of “ dese 
yere heathen ” he betrayed his sensitiveness on the subject 
by quitting the room abruptly. 

They had now been two months in Salt Lake, and in all 
that time they had heard and seen nothing of Brother 
Daniels, when one evening he surprised them by calling on 
them. 

After the first friendly greeting, Wallace asked him why 
he had kept out of sight so long. 

He hesitated, glanced at Winnie, who was present and 
answered that he had been away from the city. As soon 
as Aunt Eunice had taken the child to her room, Daniels 
burst out impetously : 

“ I suppose I ought not to have come here to-night with 
such a story as I am about to tell, but I felt as though I 


io8 


In the Toils. 


must have sympathy from some source, and I didn't know 
where else to go.” 

Wallace cordially assured him that if he was in any diffi- 
culty in which they could be of service to him, they would 
gladly do anything for him in their power. 

“ I don't know that any body can help me,” he answered, 
“ and the trouble is one that I have brought on others. You 
remember my telling you of the young English girl, Eliza 
Elarper, whom I took for my third wife ? I knew or might 
have known, when I married her, that she had no affection 
for me, and only accepted me as her husband because com- 
pelled to do so by her destitute and friendless condition. I 
can’t say that 1 cared much for her either, but I was per- 
suaded that it was my duty to marry her, and I obeyed 
counsel. About a year after I took her, I was sent away 
on this mission. During my absence Eliza, who never 
loved me and never had any reason to, made the acquaint- 
ance of a young man, a Gentile, who stopped here a while 
on his way to California, and the end of it all was that she 
ran away with him, just before I got home. According to 
our belief, and I must say our practice too, she has com- 
mitted a sin that must be punished with death, and my 
duty, in the light of the teachings I have received, was to 
follow her and her lover and kill them both, but I could not 
do it. I have learned that the young man always conducted 
himself well while in Salt J-.ake, and that he wished to 
marry Eliza honorably as soon as they could get out of the 
Territory, — would have married her here if he could, — and 
if the poor child found plural wifehood a burden too heavy 
to bear, I cannot blame her for trying to escape from it. I 
am only sorry that she did not know me well enongh to wait 
for my return, and tell me the whole truth, as in that case I 
would have given her a bill of divorce and let her go in 
peace.” 


Im th* Toils. 


X09 


"I do not quite understand you,” said Mrs. Wallace. 
‘‘Do husbands divorce their wives here themselves?’* 

Practically they do. It only costs ten dollars to dissolve a 
plural marriage. In this case I would have gone to Presi- 
dent Young and told him that Eliza and I had mutually 
agreed to separate, and upon payment of the customary 
fee the divorce would have been granted by him, and no 
questions asked. 

“And are women divorced in this manner free to marry 
. when they please? ’* 

‘ Free to marry any Saint. Inter-marriages with Gentiles 
are not countenanced. The young man who wished to 
marry Eliza would have been obliged to identify himself 
with us, outwardly at least.” 

“And now I suppose Eliza’s sin in leaving you without 
such a divorce is counted much less than the one she com- 
mits in marrying a Gentile.” 

“ That is true, and it is also true that if a woman for- 
sakes a Gentile husband and marries a Saint, she is told 
that she has done her duty and God will reward her, but I 
cannot view such things just as I have been taught to.” 

At this stage of the conversation Brother Daniels glanced 
uneasily toward the windows just as Mrs. Nye had done, 
but noticing that the heavy wooden shutters on the outside 
were closed, he seemed reassured and continued his story. 

“ When I came home and found Eliza gone, I lost no 
time in ascertaining the direction she had taken, but not as 
my brethren supposed for the purpose of following her and 
shedding her blood. I had a far different object in view, 
for I not only forgave the poor girl with all my heart for 
leaving me, but I wished to save her and her lover from the 
bloody and cruel death they would,be sure to meet with at 
other hands, if I was known to be neglecting my duty. I 
left Salt Lake six weeks ago on their track, and without 


no 


In the Toils. 


doubt my friends in the church think they have received 
their punishment.*^ 

He stopped here and scanned the faces of his listeners. 

Wallace, marking his hesitancy, said: 

“ You need not be afraid to tell us the truth. We at least 
will not blame you for listening to the dictates of human- 
ity.** 

“I know you will not, but it is enough to make one 
over-cautious to live in a community like this, when a man’s 
bosom friend may any day become his executioner. Then 
too I have been in Salt Lake long enough to know that the 
walls have ears, and that there is no spot in Zion where it is 
safe to speak above one’s breath. I have no cause to blush 
for what I have done. In the sight of God I feel that I am 
justified in allowing Eliza to escape, — in aiding her escape 
in fact, for that is what I have done, though she does not 
know it. If they have fallowed the directions they have 
received, they are safely out of the Territory to-night, but I 
shall not feel quite easy about them until I hear that they 
have reached San Francisco.” 

“ Brother Daniels,” said Esther impulsively, “ I think if 
ten men like you can be found here this Sodom may yet be 
saved.” 

“Better speak a little lower my dear,” suggested her 
husband. “You forgot what Brother Daniels has just been 
saying, — that the walls have ears.” 

Then turning to his guest he added, “ You have acted 
rightly ; there can be no doubt about that, I think. It is 
true that Moses commanded those guilty of adultery to be 
put to death, but it was One greater than Moses who said 
‘Neither do I condemn thee, go and sin no more.*” 

“Adultery ! ” exclaimed Esther, her cheeks scarlet and 
her eyes blazing. “ It was to escape a life of adultery that 
the poor child fled from this accursed place. Shame on you, 


In the Toils. 


Ill 


Charles Wallace, for coupling her name with such a word 
for trying to get where she could lead a pure life." 

Wallace looked at his wife in amazement. He had never 
seen her in such a mood before and could hardly believe 
his senses now. Was this the calm, sweet-voiced woman 
who had walked by his side for years.^ 

He made no attempt to reply to her indignant words, but 
Brother Daniels, with his customary frankness spoke up at 
once: 

“ That is rather bitter Mrs. Wallace, but I for one won’t 
reject the truth because it is unpalatable. I have taken 
plural wives because I was made to believe it my duty to 
do so, but my experience in Polygamy has gone a long way 
toward convincing me that such a system cannot have a 
divine origin.” 

“ Then why not abandon it at once? ” 

“ Because I cannot. The only plural wife that I have 
now does not wish to leave me, and I don’t see my way 
clear to divorce her against her will. She has never 
given me any cause of complaint, and I could not urge 
my own changed views as a reason for making application 
to the President for a bill." 

“I don’t see why you could not." 

“Well, perhaps it would be nearer the truth to say I dare 
not. I don’t like to own myself a coward, but I am not 
ready to brave the consequences of coming out openly in 
opposition to Polygamy.” 

“And what might those consequences be? *’ asked Wal- 
lace, speaking for the first time. 

“ Don’t ask me " was the answer. “ You will find out 
soon enough for yourself most likely.” 

“Ye who would live holy depart from Rome. All 
things are allowed here except to be upright ” quoted 
Esther. 


1X9 


In the Toils. 


“ I wish that were not true of our Zion, but I almost 
begin to fear that it is. You remember the Carmans, father 
and son, whom we saw on the plains. As soon as we 
reached Salt Lake, I went to President Young as I told you 
I should, and gave him a full history of their transactions. 
He heard me attentively and promised to look into the 
matter, but since my return to the city this week 1 have 
learned that Elder Carman has made his own statement to 
the President and been acquitted of all blame. I have also 
learned from trustworthy sources that six thousand dollars 
of poor Brother Leonard’s money has been paid into the 
tithing fund, and I am afraid it is this second fact which 
explains the first.” 

** I recollect your prophesying something of that sort 
when you told us the story,” said Mrs. Wallace, “ but the 
robbery they were guilty of was a light crime compared with 
blighting the whole life of the poor child they sacrificed for 
the sake of her money. Where is she now? Her face has 
haunted me ever since I saw her, but I have never heard a 
word of her since the day we passed them on the plains.” 

“ Her fate is indeed the saddest part of the story. She 
is not here. James Carman only stopped one night in Salt 
Lake and in the morning started with the girl and her grand- 
mother for a ranch that he owns more than a hundred miles 
south. I have been there, and a more desolate place could 
not well be be imagimed ; — a log cabin and a shed for 
cattle, with nothing in sight but endless stretches of sage- 
bush, and not a human habitation of any description with- 
in ten miles. Think what a home that must be for a 
girl brought up delicately, as Eva was, — and there James 
has left her and left her alone unless there is some creat- 
ure with her that he has hired to watch her, for her grand- 
mother died on her way to the place, died as mysteriously 
as her husband did in St. Louis.*’ 


In the Toils. 


“3 


“ I don’t see your object in telling us these things,” said 
Wallace, with a sudden sharpness of voice, and a face indi- 
cating great mental disturbance : “ Do you want to convince 
us that instead of gathering with the Saints we have fallen 
into a den of thieves ? ” 

“ God forbid ! ’* answered the other earnestly. “ There 
are Saints here, men and Women who came to Zion with 
the purest motives, and who are leading lives of devotion and 
self-sacrifice that I verily believe are without a parallel any- 
where in the world. That there are also wolves in sheep’s 
clothing among us ought not to be a matter of surprise. It 
is not that which unsettles my faith, and makes me fear as 
I do that I have been following cunningly-devised fables. 
I have believed the teachings of Mormonism as firmly as I 
believe in God, but I can no longer be blind to the fact 
that many of our doctrines bear evil fruits.” 

” Well then,” said Wallace, “ it seems to me the part of 
wisdom to follow the advice given long ago : ‘ Prove all 

things and hold fast that which is good.’ If there are errors 
in Mormonism I will reject them, but hold fast the truth 
that I know has been revealed in these latter days.” 

“You are right in that, but I must warn you that such a 
sentiment cannot be proclaimed from the housetops here in 
Zion. It is claimed that all our doctrines, are equally 
worthy of belief because all have been made known to us 
by direct revelation from Heaven, and to doubt one of 
them, — Polygamy for instance, is to lay yourself open to 
the charge of Apostacy.” 

“ I am not afraid that any such charge will be brought 
against me. My views with regard to Polygamy are well 
known, and my right to entertain them has not tc'in ques- 
tioned by any one as yet.” 

“ W’ell, if you live in this valley a year and arc allowed 
the free expression of your opinions on the subject n( plu- 


”4 


In the Toils. 


ral marriage during that time, all I have to say is, your case 
will be an exception to the history and experience of your 
brethren. Our leaders have had much trouble to bring the 
masses of the people, especially the women, to acquiesce in 
this doctrine, and it is not their policy to allow anything to 
be said which might unsettle the convictions of those who 
are, after all, by no me*ans as firmly grounded in the faith 
as they could wish.’* 

“ I don’t propose to go about preaching against polygamy, 
neither do I condemn my brethren who practice it. 

“Let every man be fully persuaded in his own mind. If 
my brother believes it to be his duty to take more wives 
than one, I am not called to sit in judgment on his conduct. 
All that I have said and all that I intend to say in relation 
to polygamy is, that in my own case I am not led either by 
inclination or conscience, to take another wife.’* 

“Ah,*’ thought Esther, ‘we first endure, then pity, then em- 
brace.’ How long will it be, I wonder before toleration of po- 
lygamy in others will lead to its acceptance as his own duty 
or privilege, ” and for the first time she was conscious of a 
feeling akin to contempt for the man she had honored as 
well as loved through all the years of their married life. It 
was only for a moment, however, that she gave way to such 
a feeling — then her heart made its constant excuse for him, 
“ He is not himself.’* 

“Well might the inspired historian say of a love 
passing the love of a woman that it was “ wonder- 
ful.** The love that outlives coldness, ingratitude and 
treachery ; that hopes against hope and believes to the last 
in the loved one, though all the world condemn him, is not 
usually man's love. Here was a woman, proud, sensitive, 
and counting the marriage tie and the love that makes the 
soul of the bond the holiest thing on earth, yet pitying and 
excusing the man who lowered wedlock to the state of a 


In the Toils. 


IIS 

contract that might be abrogated at will — and that the will 
of the stronger party alone. If a stranger had ventured to 
express a sentiment so outrageous, he would have been in- 
dignantly ordered from her presence, but while she heard 
her husband’s words with the keenest pain, her heart re- 
fused to condemn him. 

Little more was said that night upon a subject that was 
full of bitterness for two of the party at least, and Brother 
Daniels took his leave without making any further appeals 
for advice and sympathy in his own trying position. 


PART I. — Chapter vii. 

OUT IN THE STORM. WINNIE’S APPEAL FOR THE WAN- 

DERER. — RECOGNITION. — LAST PRECIOUS WORDS. 

Another month passed. It was now December and raw 
and chilly winds from the Lake, with an occasional snow- 
storm sweeping down from the Wasatch peaks, had succeed 
ed the delicious Indian summer that made the valley seem 
almost like the Garden of Eden. 

On one of the bleakest of these wintry days, when the 
sky was thickly overcast and the snow falling in damp, heavy 
flakes, Mrs. Wallace sat alone in her little sewing room, 
busied upon a dress for Winnie. Her fingers moved rapidly, 
but her thoughts were far from her work. The brightness 
had gone from her life as well as from the sky, and it re- 
quired a strong faith to hold fast the assurance that the sun 
was still shining above the clouds. 

The short afternoon was wearing away and darkness was 
beginning to gather, when she was roused from her gloomy 
musings by Aunt Eunice, who opened the door leading 
from the kitchen and asked if, — “Miss Esther would please 
step dis ’way a minnit.” 

Laying aside her work, she prepared to obey the summons, 
thinking that some difficulty had arisen in the preparation 
of supper, but when she raised her eye to the face of Aunt 
Eunice, who was standing in the door- way, her faithful ser- 
vant’s look of anxiety and distress betokened more serious 
trouble than burnt biscuits or muddy coffee. “ Miss 


In the Toils. 


117 

Esther,” she said in an earnest whisper, “ Dere's a poor 
critter in hyar dat de Lord knows t’would be a sin to send 
away, but I’m feared Massa Wallace won’t see his way 
clar ’bout lettin her stay. Jes’ you come an ’ ax her to tell 
what she tole me.” 

Wondering who could have come to their door in such a 
storm, she followed Aunt Eunice into the kitchen, and there, 
crouching in the darkest corner like a hunted animal, was a 
young girl, bare-footed, bare-headed, her long dark hair 
damp with the melting snow and her thin cotten garments 
wet through and clinging to her slender figure. 

As Esther entered she turned towards her a pair of wild 
terrified eyes, but seemingly reassured by the sight of a 
pitying womanly face she left her place and falling on her 
knees cried: ” 

•‘Don’t turn me away, pray don’t. You are good, I know. 
They say you are not a Mormon, and that was the reason 
why I came here. Nobody else would let me in, and I 
could not go much farther. You will let me stay won’t 
you } I’ll do anything. I’ll work for a crust and sleep on 
the bare floor, and if you turn me off I must freeze to 
death this bitter night ; though I’d rather strave and freeze 
a thousand times than go back to him.” 

The tone in which she pronounced the last words ex- 
pressed such dread and loathing that her listener needed no 
further explanation, yet when Esther asked : 

“Go back to whom? ” she was hardly prepared to hear 
in reply the name of one of the highest dignitaries in the 
Mormon Church. 

She would not question the trembling, shivering creature 
further* but in the kindest words assured her of shelter and 
protection, and then bidding her sit down by the fire, she 
went in search of dry garments for her. 

Returning with them, she told Aunt Eunice to take the 


ii8 


In the Toils. 


girl into her bed-room and make her change her wet clothes 
at once. 

“And then,” she added, “ when you are dry and warm and 
have eaten your supper, I will hear your story.” 

It was by this time quite, dark, and Aunt Eunice had al- 
ready fastened the shutters and bolted the door. The 
storm was increasing in violence and Esther had no fear 
that any one would follow the girl through it, but in any 
event she was determined to protect her. 

Mr. Wallace had left the city bn business in the morning, 
expecting to be absent a couple of days, and the storm 
would probably detain him still longer, so she would have 
ample time to learn the particulars of the girl’s history and 
decide what course to take before his return. Winnie, 
though she had all of a child’s curiosity to know what was 
going on, remain obediently in her mothers room, where she 
now sat rocking her doll to sleep, while she waited for 
mamma and supper, outwardly patient, but thinking in her 
heart that both were a long time in coming. 

Esther entered softly, stood a moment in the doorway 
watching the childish figure swaying back and forth in the 
little rocking chair, and listening to the sweet voice that 
sang, as her mother had sung so often beside her own 
cradle : 

Holy Angels guard thy bed. 

Tears dimmed the mother’s eyes as her thoughts reverted 
to the homeless wanderer in the other room, who perhaps 
had once been as safely sheltered and as tenderly cared for 
as her own darling. 

“ God helping me,** she said inwardly, “ I will deal with 
her as I would pray my dear one might be dealt with if left 
motherless and alone.” 

“ Oh mamma,” said Winnie, turning her head and catch- 
ing sight of her, “ I am so glad you have come. Aunt 


In the Toils. 


IT9 

Eunice said when she lighted the lamp that I must stay here 
and be a good girl but I have been very lonesome, with no- 
body but dolly, — but mamma what is the matter ? Are you 
sick ? 

“ No dear. Wait till Aunt Eunice brings the supper, and 
I will tell you.’* 

The appearance of the tea-tray diverted Winnie’s thoughts 
for a moment, but from being her mother’s companion so 
much of late, she had learned to watch her moods, and her 
affectionate heart was quick to note any shadow on the face 
so dear to her. To-night she could not help seeing that 
mamma looked troubled, and in her childish way she longed 
to comfort her, but she asked no further questions. 

After they were cozily seated at their own little round 
table, and Aunt Eunice had poured the tea, Mrs. Wallace 
said : 

“Winnie dear, there is a poor girl in the kitchen who has 
no home and nowhere to go. She came here in the storm, 
and wants to stay. Do you think we ought to keep her.^ ” 

“Why mamma ! of course we ought. Don’t you remem- 
ber the verse you made me learn last Sunday, ‘ Bring the 
poor that are cast out to thy house’ and if you did’nt have 
to bring this poor girl, you ought to let her stay when she 
came herself.’’ 

“Thou hast hid these things from the wise and prudent 
and revealed them unto babes,’’ thought the mother ; then 
she said aloud ; 

“ But suppose she should not be a good girl, would my 
little daughter like to have her in the house with us 

“ Mamma,’’ said Winnie, raising her serious, earnest eyes 
to her mother’s face, “a long time ago when we lived in New 
York, you read me a story out of the Testament that I have 
remembered ever since. It was about a woman who had 
been very wicked and was sorry for it, and came to the 


120 


In the Toils. 


house where Jesus was and began to wash his feet with her 
tears, and when the people in the house wanted to send her 
away, Jesus would not let them. Don’t you think he meant 
by that, that if people have been ever so bad, and are sorry, 
we ought to keep them with us and help them to be 
good?” 

“Yes darling, I do think so, and I don't know that this 
poor girl has done any thing wrong. I only know what I 
told you, — that she has nowhere to go and wants to stay 
with us, but after supper I mean to ask her to tell me about 
herself." 

“ Do mamma, and I hope you will think it right to keep 
her. Just suppose it was me that had to be out on the 
street in the snow to-night.” 

In her earnestness Winnie repeated the appeal that had 
already been made to a mothers heart, — an appeal 
which, as Esther divined, her father also would find 
it hard to withstand; and though he might think it a 
serious matter to risk giving shelter to one who had fled 
from the house of the High Priest the girl named, he surely 
could not be deaf to the voice of humanity and the plead- 
ings of his own innocent child. At all events, her own 
resolution was taken. With or without her husband's con- 
sent she would protect the helpless and friendless creature 
who had sought the shelter of her roof, and leave the result 
with Him who commanded her to succor the distressed. 

When she returned to the kitchen the girl, clad now in 
warm and comfortable garments and further refreshed by a 
cup of tea and the food Aunt Eunice urged upon her, look- 
ed a different being from the crouching, shivering creature 
that appealed to her compassion an hour before. 

Esther, now that she was able to observe her more close- 
ly, thought the face familiar. She had surely seen her be- 
fore but where? The girl guessing her thoughts said : 


In the Toils. 


I2I 


** I did not suppose you would recollect me, Mrs. Wallace 
but I knew you at once. Don’t you remember little Bessie 
Gordon that used to be in your Sunday school class at 
Easton 

“ Bessie ! Is it possible.? What could have brought 
you here. Surely your father and mother did not join the 
Mormons ?” 

“ No, oh no. All my troubles began by disobeying them 
and going to hear the Mormon preacher. It is a long 
story, but you cannot understand how utterly friendless and 
alone I am unless I tell you all. 

“When we left Easton four years ago we moved to Chester- 
ville, and I don’t think J have seen you since. Last winter. 
Elder Harwood, a Mormon missionary, came to our place 
and many of the people were quite carried away by his 
preaching. Some of the girls that I knew went to hear him 
and wanted me to go too. I was certain that father and 
mother wculd never consent, so, like a wicked girl as I was, 
I determined to go without letting them know anything about 
it. 

“The Grays, friends of ours at the other end of the town 
were among Elder Harwood’s converts, though father and 
mother never suspected it. Mrs.Gray often sent for me to stay 
over night with her, and I was always allowed to go. She 
took me to the Mormon meeetings and I saw Elder Har- 
wood at her house. 

“I can hardly tell how or why it was that his preaching 
affected me as it did, but from the first time that I heard him it 
seemed to me that I had been in the dark all my life before. 
He talked so much about crucifying every earthly affection 
and forsaking all for the gospel’s sake, that at last I came 
to believe it my duty to deceive my kind parents and steal 
away from my home and gather with the Saints at Zion. 
When I had once given my promise to go. Elder Harwood 


122 


In the Toils. 


planned everything for me. The Mormon converts in the 
place were to start the first of June, but I was to wait a few 
weeks later that ray friends might not suspect anything. 
When everything was in readiness for my flight, I got per- 
mission to pay a week's visit to my aunt who lived a few 
miles out in the country, I was to go in the stage, and I had 
to walk a couple of blocks to the place it started from. 
My father was away at his business and my mother bade 
me good-bye for the week, little dreaming she would never 
see me again. 

“As soon as I was out of sight of the house, I turned and 
walked rapidly from the corner where I should have met 
the stage. I went quite to the outskirts of the town, to a 
Mormon family who had orders from Harwood to take care 
of me. They received me very kindly, and kept me con- 
cealed till night. The woman said it would be necessary 
for me to disguise myself in some way, so she made me put 
on a black dress and cloak, a close bonnet and a thick crape 
veil. I am quite sure if my father had met me on the street 
in that dress he would not have known me. When the 
night express came along, the woman's husband took me to 
the cars where we found Harwood waiting for me. He trav- 
eled with me as far as Buffalo, where he put me in the care 
of a man and his wife, — Saints on their way to Zion. They 
brought me through to Florence without stopping, indeed 
from the moment I stepped on board the cars at Chester- 
ville, I was hurried along so rapidly that I had no time to 
think about what I had done and we only reached Florence 
the night before the emigrant company started to cross the 
plains. 

“ Thus far, the idea that I was doing something grand and 
heroic in forsaking home and friends for the Gospel's sake 
kept me up, but before we had accomplished the first hund- 
red miles of that miserable journey I began to see my con- 


In the Toils. 


123 


duct in its true light, and I repented bitterly enough of my 
folly and wickedness: 

“ I was sick on the way and thought I should die. I 
would have been glad of that if I had not remembered some 
dreadful Bible words about disobedient children. I did 
not want to live but was afraid to die and by the time we 
reached Salt Lake I thought I did not care what became of 
me. 

“A few days after we got here I was taken sick again. I 
was stopping with a poor family who did not want to be 
burdened with me, and they applied to the Apostle from 
whose house I was driven out this morning. He came to 
see me and was very kind, — professed a great interest in 
me, and had me removed at once to his house. There were 
two women there, both of them his plural wives, though I 
did’nt know it at the time. I was sick a long while and he 
was very good to me, and so were the women when he was 
at home, but when he was away they treated me coolly. 

“When I got well enough to be about the house he began 
to spend a great deal of time with me and finally asked me 
to marry him. I had learned before this who the women in 
the house were and also that his first wife was living near. 
I felt just as badly to have him make such a proposal as I 
would if any married man at home had talked to me in the 
same way, and I begged him with tears never to speak of 
such a thing again. He took my answer very lightly at 
first, but by and by he began to expostulate and threaten, 
and at last he told me if I did not marry him he would 
make me wish I had never been born. 

“Sunday, — yesterday, he came to me and told me he would 
give me a last chance to choose whether I would marry him 
or meet the punishment that was prepared for the disobedi- 
ent. I said ‘ You can kill me if you like but I will never 
commit such a sin as you ask me to.* Then he talked 


124 


In thk Toili. 


awfully to me. It makes my blood run cold yet to think 
of some things he said ; and when he was ready to leave the 
house he took me by the arm and dragged me into a little 
empty room, where he left me all that day and night. 

“Early this morning he came and unlocked the door, 
‘Well Miss Purity,’ he said, ‘I hope you will like the fate 
you have chosen. Last night I had you published in every 
Ward meeting-house in the city as a vile creature whose 
shameless conduct could no longer be endured by the 
Saints, and all the people are forbidden to receive you into 
their houses or to give you so much as a crust of bread or 
a cup of water. In an hours time you will find yourself on 
the street, stripped of everything except the rags in which I 
found you. You can try your new life for a while, and when 
you are ready to come to me and acknowledge your sin on 
your knees, perhaps I may take you back.’ 

“Without waiting for any reply he turned and called to the 
women, who I suppose had been listening in the passage. 
They came, one of them carrying on her arm the clothes I 
wore when I fell sick. I should have told you before that 
the few things I brought with me from home disappeared 
during my illness on the plains, so that when I reached Salt 
Lake I was entirely destitute. 

“‘Take this girl,’ said the Apostle, ‘ and see that when 
she goes from here she carries nothing away which is not 
her own.’ With these words he left the room, and the 
women ordered me to take off my shoes and stockings and 
exchange my clothes for those they brought me. While I 
was doing this they called me the vilest names and loaded 
me with reproaches and abuse. Then they took hold of me, 
one on each side and led me out of the house, bidding me 
never dare to show my face there again. 

“ I had eaten nothing since noon of the day before and I 
was still weak from my sickness, but I found no one willing 


In the Toils. 


i»S 


to take me in or give me a morsel of bread. I was refused 
food and shelter so often that I had no courage to ask for 
either again, and many times during the day I thought I 
must lie down in the street and die. At last I remembered 
you. I heard your name mentioned often while we were 
crossing the plains, but never imagined it was the friend 
who used to be so kind to me when I was a little girl. 

After we reached Salt Lake I heard people talk of Brother 
Wallace and his wife, who was not a Mormon, and to-day I 
thought if I could reach your door, you perhaps, would not 
not turn me away.” 

** I will not, my poor child, of that you may rest assured; 
but could you not find a single friend among those who came 
here from your own town ? ” 

“ Mrs. Gray died on the plains, and her husband has taken 
two wives since he came to Salt Lake. I knew it would do 
no good to go to him for help, and the other families that 
came from our place are scattered in different parts of the 
Territory. Two of them remained in Salt Lake I was told, 
but I could not find them and perhaps they would have 
been like all the the rest afraid to receive me,” 

“ Well Bessie, I will try to take the same care of you that 
I would like your mother to take of my little girl, if she 
found her wandering in the streets, and as I think you need 
rest now more than anything else, I will let Aunt Eunice 
make a bed for you in her room, and you must get to sleep 
as soon as you can. And remember, there is One who will 
watch over you far better than I can if you will ask him.” 

“ Oh Mrs. Wallace, do you think He would hear me after 
I have been so wicked ? I have’nt dared to pray for a long 
time. I know I have broken my father's heart and maybe 
killed my poor mother, and it don’t seem to me as though 
God would ever forgive me.” 

“ Bessie, if it had been your mother’s door instead of 


126 


In the Toils. 


mine that you had come to to-night, do you think she would 
have put you out into the storm again ? ” 

“ Oh no ! no ! she would have hurried me in by the fire 
and pulled off my wet clothes, and cried over me and pitied 
me — oh how she would have pitied me and loved me. Oh 
mother ! mother ! ” and with this bitter cry the poor child 
broke down and wept and sobbed with a violence that 
alarmed her kind friend, who reproached herself for open- 
ing an unhealed wound. 

“ Don’t, Bessie dear,” she said tenderly, “ your mother 
would not like to see you cry so and make yourself ill again. 
I only wanted you to remember that the Heavenly Father 
you have been afraid to pray to loves you a thousand times 
better than even your mother does. If you Avill tell Him 
all your troubles to-night and ask Him to take care of you 
and comfort your father and mother, He will Fear you and 
do more than you ask. Come now, let me see you safely in 
bed at once and don’t try to talk any more until to- 
morrow.” 

Bessie rose obediently and striving to check her sobs 
followed Mrs. Wallace into the room prepared for 
her. For the first time since the unhappy day when she 
fled from her home, she laid her tired head on a pillow 
smoothed by loving hands, and calmed and reassured by 
the kindness of an earthly friend, ventured to pour all her 
griefs into the listening ear of the Friend above. 

When morning dawned on the little household the snow 
was still falling, and throughout the day the streets in the 
neighborhood were deserted, none seeming to care to venture 
abroad in the storm. 

Bessie looking pale and ill, but wearing an air of greater 
quiet and content than might have been expected, sat in the 
little parlor of her kind entertainer, answering questions with 
regard to her recent experiences, and giving a fuller account 


In the Toils. 


127 


of herself than she was able to the night before. She said 
that Elder Harwood furnished the people in whose charge 
he placed her with money to defray her expenses to Utah, 
and promised to take her under his own care when he ar- 
rived in Salt Lake, but so far as she could learn he had not 
returned yet. 

“ And now,” said the girl with a shudder, “ I never want 
to see him again. He has deceived me cruelly, tempted me 
to forsake father and mother and home, and if he should 
find me here he would want to take care of me in the same 
way as the man who drove me out into the storm to perish 
yesterday.” 

“You need not see him again” said Mrs. Wallace sooth- 
ingly. “If he has not crossed the plains yet, it is not likely 
that he will do so before spring, and by that time, — who 
knows — you and I may find a way to get back to New York.” 

Bessie shook her head sadly. 

“You may get away from here,” she said ; “ I will pray 
every night on my knees that you may ; but I will never live 
to see my home again ; I am sure of that. The most I 
can ask or hope for is that after I am dead, word may be 
sent to my parents in some way to end their suspense about 
my fate.” 

“Have you not written to them since you came here ?’* 

“I have never been allowed to, and I don’t think that let- 
ters from any persons who might be suspected of sending 
out an unfavorable report are ever permitted to leave the 
Territory. I learned enough while in the house in which I 
spent the last six weeks to make me certain that the mails 
are very closely watched.” 

“ In spite of that watch however, we will find some way 
to communicate with your friends. Don’t you think they 
must at least suspect that you went off with the Mor- 
mons? ” 


In the Toils. 


ia8 

“ No. Elder Harwood’s converts started West, as I told 
you, three weeks before I did, and no one else in the place 
knew that I had ever attended a Mormon meeting. Har- 
wood himself took good care not to be seen in Chesterville 
after they left^ and I am quite sure my meeting with him on 
the night train, that carried me away, was not noticed by 
any one; I don’t remember seeing a person that I knew on 
the street the day I left, and besides, I knew that father 
and mother would not begin to feel anxious about me or 
think of making any inquires until the end of the week, 
when they would be expecting me home from Aunt Mary’s.” 

“ Well I do not despair of being able in some way, to send 
letters to them and to my own friends at home. I will 
make the trial at any rate, and meantime you will be as safe 
here as under your own mother’s roof.” 

Before night, Bessie began to show the effects of the in- 
human treatment she had received. The fever from which 
she had barely recovered when she was turned out into the 
storm, returned with increased violence, and by noon of 
the next day she was tossing and raving in wild delirium.. 
Mr. Wallace reached home a few hours later and listened 
with the utmost astonishment to the story his wife had to 
tell. 

Pretty little Bessie Gordon, when a child, was a great 
favorite with him as with Esther, and her parents were 
counted among his warmest friends. He was even more 
severe than his wife in his condemnation of the brutality 
that had driven her into the street to die, and announced his 
intention of laying the whole matter before “ President 
Young” at once. This however, Esther persuaded him not 
to do, at least while Bessie lay sick and no inquiries were 
made for her. 

Two more days passed, developing the most alarming 
symptoms in the poor girl’s illness. Aunt Eunice exhaust- 


In the Toils. 


139 


cd her skill as a nurse in the sufferer’s behalf, and Wallace 
and his wife tried every remedy of which they had any 
knowledge, but the fever continued unabated until the 
ninth day. 

During all this time no inquiries were made as to who 
was lying sick in their house. Indeed the weather was such 
that very few of their neighbors came to their door, and if 
Bessie had been tracked there they did not know it. 

Mrs. Wallace felt assured now that her husband would 
join her in taking any measures necessary for the girl’s 
safety, but another and greater power was about to step be- 
tween her and her persecutors. 

Death, the friend so often feared as a foe, drew near at 
last. The fire that burned so fiercely in her veins died out^ 
and white and wasted and weaker than an infant, but con- 
scious, Bessie lay back among her pillows waiting the hour 
of her release. The friends who had cared for her so ten- 
derly stood around her, and Esther bent her ear to catch 
the last whispered word: “J^sus saves sinners — saves me.— 
Tell mother.” — Here the taint, fluttering breath ceased, and 
the tired wanderer sank to rest ; — a rest that none might 
break. 

“Good night ! Now cometh quiet sleeps 
And tears that fall like gentle rain ; 

Good night ! Oh holy, blest and deep^ 

The reft that follows pain.** 


. If’, 










I 


• f 


“VI 




< 


*“ *1 1 


• ■■ -f ■ 

ss -J t ^ .r^? ^ . 

«’ ' '' ■ .^ f 1 


f r 


vr . 




* 


• IV / :\f<,'/’i >^. t \ '/V*'' ‘ ^ i' •• • .'t^ « •-'"■'a/ •* 'V- 

4 ' T ' . i' 4 ^ ■' N. 7 ■ •■ • . “ - t ^ ' ^ • '■ 

. -' , ^ -^^V'' ■ •■ V' :' • ?r-,; v"^ • ■ ^ ■■ :*'''^v 


Liit*"ai ‘ > ' • 'BNhl-.'''- ., •-» , \ • C' •> V :• *■' '• .•■• 

fc;’-!;' - ■ ■. .. I - - 

,V}«'' \ ■ ■• ^^ ‘ . ■ 'X ^ ',. •':• k >k' 


.'* * 

; f 




Mm 





*; j.. •’ 


\ 

^ ,* 




• J 

• .kV^ .‘■: 

' 4* M , • 


^ 4 

r . 

4 


• # 


V * •' 




V 




•% t. • 


i. 

\ A 

% ’jt 






• ^ 


»> • 


% 

«i 

'« 




;- y :. , . 

*’ •■•"• A. * '•>•5 


.• C ' -^ ; • 

*4 M ^ ^ ‘ 

• ■ I • . . •' 

' • '4 • 






* ^ ^ I ’ ' 

_ 1 ^ ^ . 
• ' . / ^ !*• 


' «» 
t. 


^ * 4 

. ‘?v 


4 





\y 


> -’S' • jS 

• , ' “ ♦ 4 ♦ 

A' \ 


• f 


u'’ J , . . A'' I ^ 

.Si--iAA ' •. ; •* 

j S’ • . li!l\ . ■ ■ ■ ' 


*' ’>1 ' • 

/ . ’•:,... Vs y.^i' ' ' 

V S'.'-. .'>\>c'>^^ ■% ‘•''' 


Vi* .. ^ 


• 4 

• K 

\1 


'’.'i » y •'.•'■■' 


■ - 


I • 


• •4 

k 

I 


' . ‘ A V*' ^ * * 


%V i L • - -••>■4 

k .' ' '-'f. . ^,* 


fc\: ■ ' ; '■ *' V - 4 * -.'S' *l’>"*t-‘ 


1-7 • ' 

i.f « ■> ? '..‘J^ 


.' f/ 


A-' 7 . • 


. r,>’ , 

■■■ ■' m 



"f' 


•N. 


■ A • 

i V ■• 

; -0* 


. \ 



v<- 7 V./r 4 V... :;- 7 : ■ 

^ ^ ^ - V s 

r r . ^ •ft 


. 4 J 


^ ♦ 


4 ^ 


• N k 


.-</ 

* 


ii . < 

/ 


* 


.V' 


■ ♦ 


T Vf 


; ^ ..' vv-t 7 -i. -M .*■ *>,' 

*i ‘ ’•• ‘ - A ■ ■' '^ • 

•j'Vlj^iWk'V / . ./, • v' : r t. \ ^ 

'-■vM' y •'^■•'- ^ 7 ' :•■ V,,..':-, 7 \ 7 "v. 7 ':V 
' ■ -:t .. ' ,' r. : . ' • . -'v. '■; 







i 


'-A. 


/' A' 


► « s 


•V- ' 




L*^' * 


fi'. 


>>. ^ , I,** 

•> •i'^- ^ S » * .t: f 




^ ^ ♦ J ' r • . / 

i»< »-' • ' V ^ ' • 


f* 


irjv'k,^ ^ . 

•; 


‘-s> 


T» 


•' i 

' • 4 
0 


^ •>W'^S -y . *‘A’./. 

J'' k,.* x’ - A 

S' 'IV. 


k 4 





.-;v . 




* -? 

' >A 


k 




iV.I* 




/ 

• V 









? 4 


* ^ C k 

4 


-'H- 


J 

V , - 1-^.^ 


\ 


^ : • 


. '< 


x< 




y 


f • 


,4 


f * , ’ 




.1 « 
4 


. « ( 

I t • 


I ^ 

V * 


^ 3 ^ I *> . 


^ ' I * 


t 

V If 


\ 


yX 

>'l - . ‘ •>. V-.' >4^- 


/• 


. s 

* \ > 


J / 


*s. 




V • > 4 . 

^ it* ‘ 


I A 


I 7. 








IN THE TOILS: 

OR 

MARTYRS OF THE -LATTER DAYS. 

PART II. 




PART II. — CHAPTsm I. 

AMANDA JOSEPHINE; HER ASPIRATIONS AND TRIBULA- 
TIONS. — “the dearest mother on earth.” — THE 

HEROISM OF DAILY LIFE. 

**I care not, Fortune, what you me deny. 

You cannot rob me of free Nature’s graee, 

You cannot shut the windows of the sky 
Through which Aurora shows her brightening face.** 

The winter was over and gone in the Promised Land. 
March had come ; not the stormy March of those regions 
where it is a spring month only in the almanac, but a time 
of soft skies and warm breezes, of swelling buds and open- 
ing blossoms. 

There was nothing pale or wintry in the sunlight that 
was thrown back from the glittering peaks of the Wasatch 
to flood the valleys below. The brown earth, freshly 
turned by the settler’s plow, felt its warmth ; the birds, that 
were building their nests in the willows along the streams, 
greeted it with a chorus of cheerful song, and the shyest of 
the early wild flowers crept out of their hiding places into 
the golden glow. 

As far as climate is concerned, Utah surely has whereof 
to boast and Esther Wallace, leaning from her window that 
opened toward the sunrise, and drinking in the fresh breath 
of the early morning, felt for a little while almost in love 
with her new home. 

The winter had passed very quietly with our friends. 


134 


In the Toils. 


The Priesthood, under whose ban Esther, not without rea- 
son, supposed herself to be, made no open demonstrations 
of hostility. Perhaps they hoped in time to convert her 
and secure her fortune, which rumor exaggerated to four 
times its real amount. At all events she met with corteous 
treatment from the Saints and, if they persisted in urging 
celestial marriage upon her husband as a present duty, she 
did not know it. 

He on his part appeared less absorbed in the mysteries 
of the Latter Day Gospel than during the first months suc- 
ceeding their arrival in Utah. After his favorite books 
were unpacked and the little sitting-room made to do 
double duty as a library, he spent much of his time at home, 
and on stormy winter days when they gathered around their 
cheerful fire, Esther with her sewing, Winnie on a cushion 
at her mother’s feet, and the ** darling papa ” on the other 
side of the hearth-rug reading aloud, they presented a per- 
fect picture of a happy and united family. 

On such days the year that had brought Esther -^o much 
sorrow appeared like a dream, and she could almost fancy 
that they were back again in the dear old home. 

Her husband seldom spoke of anything pertaining to his 
religious experiences, and she sometimes thought he was 
beginning to see how grossly he had been deceived by the 
“ messenger from Heaven,” through whose instrumentality 
he was led to forsake home and friends for an inheritance 
among the Saints. 

Elder Harwood was still East, and in his absence Wal- 
lace was without a guide in the tangled paths he was seek- 
ing to follow. Left to himself, it seemed possible that he 
might give up the vain atttempt to reconcile the teachings 
of the new Gospel with his own sense of right. Lately, 
however, the brethren around them had begun to visit at 
their house more frequently, and there was no lack of coun- 


In the Toils. 


I3S 

sel as to what Brother Wallace should and should not do. 

During the winter, Esther nourished a secret hope that 
they might get away from Utah before the end of the year, 
but this she was now forced to give up. The project of 
building another house, of which her husband said so little 
that she thought he had abandoned it, was revived and on 
the spring morning with which this chapter opens workmen 
were busy about the foundations. 

The house was planned on an ample scale. “ Large 
enough for a family like mine,” our old friend Bishop Wil 
Hams observed, and Esther could not help noticing that 
this time her husband failed to resent the remark or treat it 
as an ill-timed jest. The new building was an object of 
interest to others besides Bishop Williams. Its style and 
dimensions were so far iil advance of those around it, that 
the good Saints, very like the world’s people in this particu- 
lar, conceived a sudden respect for the man who could 
afford such a residence. 

Almost any day half a dozen neighbors of the sort who 
take a cheerful interest in other people’s affairs, might be 
seen leaning over the fence or congregated within making 
friendly suggestions about the work. 

It was a noticeable fact, however, that the brethren alone 
had such an amount of leisure to devote to their neighbors’ 
business. The sisters seldom left their own premises. 
Household duties and the care of their numerous children 
occupied most of their time, and the spring brought them 
additional work, in the shape of planting and watering their 
gardens. 

The Saints, it is well known, go back to the the good old 
times for their social and domestic models, and as a general 
thing improve upon the copy. 

Rebecca and Rachel drawing water for the flocks they 
tended, Ruth gleaning in the harvest .field, and other pastoral 


In the Toils. 


13^ 

pictures of those days, have laid hold upon their imaginations 
and are reproduced by them in Utah, with variations suited 
to their circumstances. 

Even at this date the traveler in the modern Zion 
will be reminded of scenes he has witnessed in the Orient. 
He will see women herding cattle and sheep on the range, 
planting the tilled fields, digging ditches for 'the water that 
is to irrigate their crops, and later in the season gathering 
in the harvest. 

The writer hereof recollects one venerable patriarch who 
was rich in flocks and herds, and blessed likewise with eight 
dutiful and affectionate wives. In the valleys of Southern 
Utah the grass is green throughout the year, and through 
summer’s heat and winter’s storm those eight loyal women 
watched and tended their master's flocks, Their’s was no 
hireling service. They received no wages except the con- 
sciousness of duty well performed and their children, grow- 
ing up around them, were taught to follow in their footsteps. 
No wonder the patriarch’s riches increased until he became 
the greatest man in all those valleys. 

Another wealthy brother, being asked the reason of his 
unusual prosperity, made answer : 

“ I married four active strong-armed Danish girls the first 
year I came here. My wives have cultivated my farm, 
herded my stock, taken my grain and fruit to market, and 
earned enough besides to build my houses and barns.” 

Thus it will be seen that the Latter Day Saints have 
solved the problem of cheap labor and defined the sphere 
of woman at the same time. 

But to return to our story. 

As the new building progressed, there was quite a little 
army of workmen to board, and some one had to be hired 
to assist Aunt Eunice in the the kitchen, but domestic help 
proved a scarce commodity in Zion. 


In the Toils. 


137 


The matrimonial market was brisk, and absorbed most of 
the girls above the age of fourteen. There was quite a 
large number of single women in the train which came in 
the previous autumn, but most of these were sealed to wait- 
ing Saints in different parts of the Territory, soon after their 
arrival. 

However, after a week of failures, Wallace came home on 
Saturday night, tired, but triumphant, and announced that he 
had secured the services of a sister Saint who was not only an 
embodiment of all the Christian graces, but a perfect 
mistress of housekeeping in all its branches. 

Aunt Eunice received the intelligence with a scornful 
toss and sniff. She had had her trials before now with 
“ white trash ” in the kitchen, and gave it as her deliberate 
opinion that : 

“ Gabriel hisself could’nt put up with sich goins on.” 

After a little questioning, it transpired that Wallace had 
not seen the paragon he described, but Bishop Williams 
had engaged her for them and assured him that she would 
be on hand bright and early Monday morning. 

Monday came, but not the model servant. Tuesday 
dawned and passed and Aunt Eunice, with grim satisfaction 
repeated : “ Did’nt I tole yer so ? ” but Wednesday brought 
the long expected damsel. 

She was short and stout, sandy haired, freckled, and a 
trifle cross-eyed, but then beauty was not in the bond. 
When shown into the sitting-room, she settled herself com- 
fortably in the nearest chair, deposited her band-box on the 
carpet and began fanning herself with her sun-bonnet, re- 
marking, “ Its powerful warm walkin’.** 

“I suppose so,** assented Mrs. Wallace. “Are you the 
girl that Bishop Williams engaged for us?* 

“ Yes sister.** 


In the Toils. 


138 

“ Have you brought a recommendation from your last 
place ? 

“ How?" 

“ I mean, did the lady you worked for last send you to 
Bishop Williams ? ” 

“No, I never worked out before." 

“ Where are you from ? " 

“ lowy.” 

“ What is your name ? ** • 

“ Amanda Josephine Harker." 

“ Well Amanda, can you cook, wash, and iron ? ” 

“ I reckon." 

“ What wages, do you expect ? " 

“ Well, Sister Styles, she would’nt promise me more'n a 
dollar a week, but Bishop Williams, he said as how you 
folks up here could afford to give a dollar and a half. I 
sp’ose I could *a married old man Styles in a month, but 
good land ! I don’t want no sech truck as him. He’s sev- 
enty if he’s a day, and too stingy to give his wives enough 
to eat." 

“Not a very kind husband certainly, in that case, but we 
were talking about wages. If I give you a dollar and a half a 
week I shall expect you to do all the washing besides help- 
ing with the cooking and keeping the kitchen clean.*’ 

“You need’nt be a grain uneasy sister. I calculate the 
washin’ there is about this house won’t be a circumstance 
to what I’ve ben used to, and as far as keepin’ the kitchen 
clean, my mother always said a body might eat off a floor 
her girls had scrubbed.’’ 

As Amanda Josephine paused a moment to take breath, 
the master of the house entered the room in search of a 
paper. 

“Why how dcf you do, brother Wallace?" exclaimed the 


In the Toils. 


139 


young lady rising with alacrity and holding out a hand of 
formidable proportions. 

Wallace, considerably embarrassed by the salutation, took 
the offered hand mechanically and was rewarded by a grip 
and shake that nearly dislocated his arm. Esther smother- 
ed a laugh with difficulty, while her husband, having effect- 
ed his release from the grasp of the gushing Amanda and 
found the paper he came for, retreated in good order. 

American ladies are apt to complain that servants in this 
country never know their place, but Mrs. Brown of Fifth 
Avenue is at least spared the consciousness that Sarah Jane 
in the kitchen aspires to the position of Mrs. Brown, 
No. 2. 

Mrs. Wallace would have risked the dread possibility of 
such aspirations on the part of Miss Amanda Josephine 
Harker, if she could only have been sure of that amiable 
young persons qualifications as cook and laundress. 

As it was, there seemed room for doubt, but she must 
have help of some sort, and so Amanda was engaged for a 
week on trial, and duly installed in the kitchen. 

The work expected of her she said was, “ jest nothin* at 
all,’* and from the manner in which she performed it, her 
word seemed likely to be made good. 

But who meantime shall describe the tribulations of Aunt 
Eunice.? 

“ Sure’s you’re born Miss Esther,” she said the next day 
“ its gwine to to take more’n Massa Job's patience, to put 
up with dat ar’ 'Mandy. Dis morin* I wor ’bleeged to go 
fur de meat de berry fust thing so I had to trust ’Mandy 
with the dishes. I tole her an’ showed her pertikler ’bout 
everthing an’ when I come home ef dat critter warn’t a 
washin’ de chany cups in de hand-basin an’ a dryin’ em on 
her dirty apron, an’ when I axed her whar she wor brung 
up that she did’nt know no better, she jest answers as bold 


140 


Ik the Toils. 


as brass, **Hity-tity! ’Pears to me some folks is more nice 
than wise.” 

“ Well Auntie we must be patient with her this week ; 
Perhaps you had better set her to scrubbing the floor. She 
seems strong enough to do that well.” 

Aunt Eunice did as requested, and the scrubbing seemed 
more in Miss Amanda’s line, but she had a soul above drud- 
gery, and aspired to something that would afford a better 
field for the display of her talents. She wanted to show 
” Sister Wallace” that she could get up a better dinner than 
any she had ever eaten, but no opportunity for carrying out 
her wish occured until Saturday, when Aunt Eunice was 
laid up with a sick headache, into which she had been fairly 
worried by the trials of the week. 

Mrs. Wallace had some misgivings about the dinner, and 
remained iii the kitchen herself superintending and helping 
until the vegetables were prepared and the meat was in the 
oven. 

An hour later when she opened the kitchen door to see 
how Amanda was getting on, she was assailed by a powerful 
odor of burning meat. The stove was red hot the room 
full of smoke, and no one in sight. She drew the roast 
from the oven, a blackened coal, and after opening the win- 
dows went in search of her handmaiden, whom she found 
leaning over the railing of the back porch singing : 

“I never knew what joy was, 

^ Till I became a Mormon.” 

‘‘Amanda,” she called a little sharply, “ why don’t you 
stay in the kitchen and attend to your cooking? The 
meat is all burned up and the dinner spoiled.” 

The fair Miss Harker left her post at this summons and 
returned leisurely to the kitchen. 

“Where are your vegetables Amanda?” was the next 
question. “ I don’t see them on the stove.” 


Ik the Toils. 


141 

“Well now if I hain't forgot to put 'em over. Here they 
are in the pantry; who’d a thought though that the meat 
would burn so quick." 

It was late when the dinner finally appeared on the table, 
but it looked well enough, and the tried and worried house- 
keeper hoped it might be eatable. 

Grace was said, the coffee poured and Mr. Wallace 
raised his cup to his lips but set it down again in haste. 

“What is the matter my dear.>" his wife asked a little 
apprehensively. 

“This coffee is sweetened with salt, or else it was made 
with water from the lake." 

“I scalded the coffee-pot and put in the coffee myself 
but perhaps our Amanda has added something at the sug- 
gestion of her own genius, I will go and see." 

An examination of the coffee-pot showed it to be half 
filled with some foreign substance. 

“What have you put in here Amanda?" asked her mis- 
tress. 

“Nothin* but some fish to settle the coffee. Did'nt you 
tell me to?** 

And thereupon Miss Harker drew from the pot a 
piece of dried codfish the size of one of her own deli- 
cate hands. 

“You will have to keep the word of wisdom, and drink 
water to-day,** Mrs. Wallace said as she took her place at 
the table, “ Amanda has improved upon my instructions a 
little, and settled the coffee with half a codfish " 

The next morning, to the great relief of the suffering 
household. Aunt Eunice was able to return to the kitchen, 
and they all ate and drank without fear ; but Monday brought 
fresh trials. Miss Harker, at her own request, was stationed 
at the wash-tub and the manner in which she rubbed out the 
clothes, certainly did credit to her muscular development. 


In the Toils. 


142 

but before noon. Aunt Eunice made her appearance in the 
sitting-room with evil tidings written on her face. 

“ My heart’s jest broke Miss Esther,” she said. “ All de 
white does in the wash is clean ruined. I left em in de 
rense water so’st I could go an’ hang up de flannels, tellin 
dat ’Mandy not to tech em ’em an’ and what does she do 
but go an’ empty all de bluein’ in de box on ’em. Ef she 
don’t go ’fore long, dere won’t be nuffin left in dis house.” 

Mrs. Wallace administered what consolation she could 
and again counselled patience, as there remained only one 
more day of the week of trial. 

On Tuesday evening she called Amanda into the sitting- 
room, and after paying her a week’s wages told her she 
might go the next day, as they would not need her any 
longer. 

Miss Harker’s face reddened till it rivalled her hair, and 
her voice took an unusually high key as she demanded to 
see Brother Wallace. 

“ He is not at home. Had you anything particular to 
say to him? ” 

” Pertickiler! I should think so! It was him that sent for 
me and sent for me to stay. My mother did’nt bring up her 
girls to work out, and I would’nt a demeaned myself to slave 
in your kitchen for no dollar and a half a week if Brother 
Williams had’nt told me that Brother Wallace was a lookin’ 
for a second wife and I was the one he was a lookin’ for. 
A nice thing it would be to send me off when he’s away ; 
but I don’t go, not till I see him.” 

“ Miss Harker,” said Esther in the blandest manner, “ if 
you wish to speak to my husband about marrying him, I 
have’nt the least objection, but if that was his object in 
sending for you, he will certainly call on you at your own 
home, and 1 must really insist upon your going there to- 


In the Toils. 143 

night instead of to-morrow. The evening is pleasant and 
it is not far to walk.” 

Amanda, seeing that her late mistress was quite in earnest, 
abandoned the strong position she had taken, and after a 
few sulky mutterings gathered up her worldly effects and 
departed. She had not been gone half an hour, when Wal- 
lace returned. 

Esther, with as much gravity as she could command un- 
der the circumstances, related her final interview with the 
damsel who proposed to bestow on him the boon of her fair 
hand. 

“ It was too bad of Bishop Williams to make the whole 
family the victims of his practical joke,” said Wallace, 
laughing a little but coloring and looking annoyed. “He 
ought to be obliged to eat of the young woman’s cooking 
and to replace the articles she has broken and destroyed.” 

“Well,” returned Esther “we will have to pass by the 
offense I suppose, after the manner of the good boy who 
always forgave his school-fellows for striking him if they 
were bigger than he was. And now arises the question, 
what is to be done next? Aunt Eunice won’t take any 
more ‘ white trash ' under her wing ; — that is settled — and 
the hard fact remains that there is only one pair of hands 
to do the work of two.” 

“I’m sure I don’t know what to do. I exhausted my 
resources before.” 

Wallace was about as helpful in domestic emergencies as 
men generally are, and having disposed of his own respon- 
sibility in the matter with this final remark, he took his hat 
and went out to look after his horses. 

“ I’ve half a mind to let them all go without dinner to- 
morrow,” was Esther’s first thought in her vexation, but 
better counsel prevailed and after sleeping over the matter 
she decided to start out herself in search of help.. 


In the Toils. 


iz}4 

Her first call was on Mrs. Nye. Her neighbor laughed 
heartily over the history of her experience with Amanda 
Josephine. 

“ The young lady is no stranger to me,” she said, “ we 
hired her for a little while when I was sick last summer, 
but she left in disgust at the end of the second week 
because Mr. Nye did not propose to her.” 

” She told me she had never worked out before.’ 

‘‘Very likely. Amanda has her dignity to maintain, and 
won’t compromise herself by the admission that she is or 
has been a servant, and I may as well tell you that it will be 
useless to look for help* of a different type here. Miss 
Harker is a fair specimen of the unmarried girls remaining 
in Salt Lake.” 

“ I did not think of trying to get another girl in the house. 
If I can only find some one to do my washing and ironing. 
Aunt Eunice and I can manage the rest.” 

Mrs. Nye, after reflecting a few minutes said : “ I think 1 
know just the person you want; that is if you can send your 
work to her. She could not leave her children to come to 
you.” 

“ It will suit me just as well to have her do the work at 
her own house, and if you will tell me where to find her 1 
will engage her at once; or perhaps you can go with me.” 

“ I cannot leave home this morning very well, but I can 
give you such directions that you will have no difficulty in 
finding the place.” 

“ Mrs. Eustace St. Clair, corner of South Temple and 
Tenth streets.” 

Esther read aloud the address Mrs Nye had written 
down, adding : 

“ Rather a grand name for a washerwoman, is it not ? ” 

“ When she took that name she little dreamed what her 


In the Toils. 


145 


Aiture would be,*’ was the answer; “Mrs. St. Clair is the 
wife of one of the richest men here, but because she refuses 
to share his heart and home with wife No. 2 she is banished 
to a log cabin in the outskirts of the town, and left to sup- 
port herself and her children in any way she can.” 

“ Why does she submit to such treatment ? If her hus- 
band has property, he can surely be compelled to support 
his family.” 

“ My dear Mrs. Wallace, who or what is to compel him ? 
As I told you before, there is no law here except the will of 
Brigham Young, and it is his will that a wife who rebels 
against her husband's plural marriages shall be severely 
punished.” 

“A pleasant state of affairs truly for wives. I had sup- 
V posed Utah to be within the limits of the United States.” 

“ So we all supposed when we came here, but the attitude 
of the Government toward us don’t seem to bear out the 
supposition. We might as well be subjects of the King of 
Dahomy, so far as the protection of our rights or the 
redress of our wrongs are concerned.” 

“The women, you mean.” 

“Well yes, I was thinking of the women when I spoke, 
but when it comes to a conflict with the ruling power, the 
same remark applies to the men. Let your husband or 
mifte dare to disobey counsel, and he. would soon find that 
the laws of the United States afforded him no protection; 
but for my part I don’t waste much pity on the men. They 
come here of their own free will, and most of them with a 
full understanding of what they call the principles of Mor- 
monism, and as they have sown, so let them reap.” 

Esther could have found it in her heart to respond 
Amen, had not her own husband been among the number of 
those who made this voluntary surrender of their liberties. 
She would have liked to learn a little more definitely what 


146 


In the Toils. 


Mrs. Nye thought would be the consequence to him of 
disobeying counsel, but she shrank from asking directly, 
and as it was growing late she bade her neighbor good 
morning, and started out to find Mrs. Eustace St. Clair. 

It was a long walk, quite to the outskirts of the town, as 
Mrs. Nye had said, but the weather and the scenery were 
delightful enough to make her wish it still longer. Salt 
Lake valley, under those soft skies and bathed in the bright 
sunshine of Spring, look fair and placid enough to be the 
very home of peace and good will to men. The cottages 
she passed were half hidden in blossoming trees, and 
farther on • 

** Mountain grasses low and sweet. 

Grew in the middle of every street.” 

There might be crushed hopes and blighted lives in the 
homes behind the flowery screen that bordered either side of 
the way, but no sob of grief or cry of pain troubled the 
fragrant air. It was difficult to imagine such a tragedy as 
the one of which she had just heard, in the midst of scenes 
so fair and peaceful; difficult to believe the beautiful city of 
the Saints, as it lay before her eyes, the theater of such 
crimes against God and humanity. 

But even while these thoughts were passing through her 
mind, she came in sight of the home of the betrayed and 
deserted wife. 

It was a cabin, nothing more ; with walls of unhewed logs, 
a slab roof, a door of rough, unpainted boards, and but 
four squares of glass in the single window that lighted the 
interior. 

Plainly, the house was the abode of poverty as well as of 
sorrow, but rude as it was there was nothing repulsive in 
the aspect of the place. On either side of the door, climb- 
ing vines were trained over the rough logs, a few flowers 
blossomed in a box under the window, and the tiny grass 


In the Toils. 


M7 

plot between the door and the road-side was free from the 
slightest speck of litter. 

Two little boys, rosy and bright-eyed enough to make 
amends for their patched clothing, were playing near the 
house. They drew back shyly at the sight of a stranger, but 
when she spoke to them, both caps were taken off in a 
moment. Their mother is a lady, that is certain,” was 
Esther’s mental comment. Then she asked: 

“ Does Mrs. St. Clair live here ? ” 

“ Yes ma’am,” said the one who constituted himself 
spokesman, “ She is our mother, but she is not at home just 
now.** 

“ I would like to see her. Do you think she will be gone 
long ? ” 

“ I don*t know but Robbie can tell. Please wait a min- 
ute till I go in and see if Robbie is awake.” 

Opening the door softly, the little fellow tip-toed into the 
room and came out again directly, saying : 

“ Robbie thinks mamma will be home in an hour, and 
says will you please come in.'* 

Entering in response to this invitation, Mrs. Wallace was 
greeted by a faint, but very sweet voice, saying : 

“ I am sorry my mother is not at home. Will you sit 
down and wait for her ? ** 

Looking about for the owner of the voice (for at first 
sight the room appeared empty), she perceived a small, 
curtained bed in the farther corner, and as she crossed the 
floor, a white, wasted hand put aside the curtains, and dis- 
closed to view the face of a boy perhaps fifteen years old, 
who was sitting up in the bed supported by pillows. 

It was a very pale face, with thin cheeks, hollow temples, 
and a look of patient suffering in the large blue eyes that 
spoke of weary days and nights of pain. 


148 


In the Toils. 


A pair of crutches, resting against the pillows, told the 
remainder of the story. 

“ The poor mother ! ” thought Esther, her own heart 
deeply touched, “She has this sorrow too, to bear.** 

She seated herself beside the bed, and taking one of the 
thin hands tenderly in her own said : 

“I would not have disturbed you if I had known you 
were sick. Your little brother said you were sleeping just 
now.*' 

“ No. Mamma told me when she went away I must try 
and sleep, because I had such a bad night, but I could not, 
though the pain was nearly gone.” 

“ Poor boy! You suffer very much then ? ’* 

“Sometimes I do, but there are days when I am very 
comfortable. The nights are the worst.” 

Then seeing Mrs Wallace glance toward the crutches, he 
added: 

“ Yes, I am a cripple. I have never walked since we 
came to Salt Lake, but on my good days, as I call them, I 
can move about the room very well,** 

“You were lame then when you came here ? ** 

“Yes. I was hurt when we were crossing the plains. 
Mother said if I had been where I could have had a doctor 
and good care, 1 would be well now, but God would’nt 
have let me get hurt there, if it was’nt best for me to be 
lame.** 

“Do you think it is better for you to lie here and suffer 
thaCti to be well and strong.?” 

“It must be, because God is our father, and He gives us 
what is best for us if we love Him.** 

“Who taught you that .?’* 

“My mother. When I was quite a little boy, I was sick 
and had to take very bitter medicine. I begged mamma to 
give me something that did not taste so bad, but she said 


In the Toils. 


149 


*my son, the bitter medicine is the best,* and afterwards 
when she talked to me about how much God loved us, she 
said He gave us sickness and trouble because he loved us, 
just as she gave me bitter medicine.** 

His listeners eyes filled with tears as she made answer: 

“ That is a very beautiful faith, my dear boy, but some of 
us, when trouble is heavy forget that it is sent in love.’* 

“And that makes it a great deal harder to bear;” Robbie 
added, “ I know for I don’t always remember. Lately I 
have suffered more because” — a faint color straining his 
pale cheeks — “because we are very poor now, and mother 
can’t always get the medicine I need, and when I have 
nothing to quiet the pain, I often lie awake whole nights, 
and the nights are so long. It seems as though morning 
would never come, and I forget that God loves me.” 

Then as if struck by a sudden thought, he said earnestly: 

“You won’t tell mother what I have said will you.^ I try 
to make her think I can do without the medicine, and it 
would break her heart if she knew how much I want it. I 
keep very still nights so she will not find out that I am 
awake.** 

“No, my poor child, I will not tell your mother,” Esther 
answered deeply moved “ I have a little girl of my own at 
home, and I know how mothers feel when their children 
suffer.** 

“And my mother cares so much more for us than she 
does for herself. She is the dearest mother in the world. 
Oh you don’t know how good.” 

Robbie and his guest were so absorbed in conversation, 
that neither heard the sound of approaching footsteps, un- 
til a shadow darkened the doorway, and Esther, looking up, 
saw a tall, shabbily dressed woman standing on the thres 
hold. 

“Oh mother! *’ Exclaimed Robbie “ I am so glad you 


In the Toils. 


150 

have come. Here is a lady who has been waiting a good 
while to see you.*' 

“ I am sorry to have kept you waiting.** Mrs. St. 
Clair said, turning towards her visitor, “ I seldom leave 
home, but this morning I was compelled to go to an- 
other part of the town, and have been absent much longer 
than I intended.” 

She spoke in a musical, richly modulated voice, but with 
a slightly foreign accent. Her bearing was graceful and 
dignified, and her language and manners alike contrasted 
strangely with the rude cabin that was her home. In age 
she might have been between thirty-five and forty. Her 
face bore traces of rare beauty, but its bloom had faded, 
and there were deep lines of care in her forehead. The 
eyes were beautiful still, and of the deepest, darkest blue 
like her boy's. 

There was a look in their depths, like that of one who 
has done with life and hope ; but when her glance rested 
upon the patient sufferer on the low bed, a smile of unutter- 
able tenderness lighted up the sad eyes, and transfigured 
the whole face. She might have said with poor Marion 
Earl; 

I'm dead, you see and if. 

The mother in me has survived the rest, 

Why, that’s God’s miracle. 

Men talk of the courage needed to face death; it is 
nothing compared with the courage needed to face life 
sometimes. 

Beside the life that this woman had taken up and dared to 
live for her children's sake, the rock of the Inquisition was 
a bed of roses, and yet we think and speak as though they 
who embraced the fagot and the stake, and went through 
fire up to God, were the only martyrs. 

Some such thoughts passed through Esther's mind, as she 


In the Toils. 


^51 

studied the mother’s face while she bent over her boy and 
talked to him in low caressing tones. There was such a 
depth and intensity of love in every look and word, such a 
resolute putting aside of self and of her own sorrows, that 
she might minister to her suffering child, no wonder that 
Robbie thought her the best mother on on earth. 

Esther had come to the place prepared to pity the desert- 
ed wife. She now felt more disposed to reverence the 
mother who showed so much of “Love’s divine self-abne- 
gation.** 

The morning was passing, and she had not spoken of the 
business that brought her there. 

If, as Mrs. Nye said, Mrs. St. Clair was compelled to earn 
her own and her children’s bread as best she could, the pro- 
posal she had to make might be very acceptable. Robbie 
admitted that they were very poor now, and every thing in 
and about the house bore witness to the fact. 

The single room, with its bare floor and scant furniture, 
though as neat and orderly as hands could make it, was 
cheerless enough. The little boys playing outside were 
barefoot, and the mother’s dress of faded cotton was sadly 
worn. 

Esther longed to help them out of her abundance, but she 
could not offer alms to this refined and cultivated woman, who 
was in all respects her equal. Work, however, she could 
offer. 

Too thoroughly sensible herself to be ashamed of any 
honest employment, she judged rightly that Mrs. St. Clair 
would be glad to do anything that would bring food to her 
children. 

When she told her errand, and added to the liberal price 
she named the stipulation that all the work should be done 
by Mrs. St. Clair at home, there was a sudden light in Rob- 
bie’s eyes which was reflected on his mother’s face, and her 


152 . 


In the Toils. 


offer was accepted with an eagerness that showed painfully 
how great their necessities were. 

Before she left, with a thoug‘htfulness and delicacy which 
did credit alike to her head and heart, she insisted upon 
paying for the first week’s work in advance, on the plea that 
it would be safer to give the money to Mrs. St. Clair her- 
self, than to trust it to the boy who would bring the clothes. 

If she had known that there was not a morsel of food in the 
poor cabin for the children, and that the mother’s long walk 
that morning was undertaken in the vain hope of getting a 
few pounds of flour from a rich Saint who owed her for 
work, she would have been still more grateful for the Provi- 
dence which led her steps thither; for Esther Wallace, good> 
true and noble woman, and better still earnest disciple of 
Him who went about doing good, counted it far more 
blessed to give than to receive. 

And could she hav^ looked into the cabin a few minutes 
after the door closed behind her, and have seen the mother 
on her knees at Robbie’s bedside, giving thanks that her 
children were spared another day of hunger, she would have 
been a thousand times repaid. 


PART II. — Chapter ii. 

THERESA ST. CLAIR. — THE STORY OF HER LIFE. 

To weary hearts, to mourning homes, 

God*8 meekest angel gently comes. 

No power has he to banish pain, 

Or give us back our lost again, 

And yet in tenderest love, our dear 
And Heavenly Father sends Him here. 

— Whittier. 

The lessons of that one morning were worth a thousand 
homilies on patience and resignation. 

All that day, and for many days afterward, Esther’s mind 
was filled with the image of the pale boy, bearing the sharp- 
est pain in silence through the long hours of the night, that 
the knowledge of his sufferings might not be added to his 
mother’s burdens, and the heroic mother, hiding her crushed 
heart and blighted hopes from her children, and draining 
the bitter cup held to her lips with a smile for their sake. 

As she contemplated this picture, her own trials dwindled 
into insignificance and she wondered that she had even 
murmured at her lot. 

Her husband was still all her own, her child healthy and 
happy, and they were surrounded with every comfort that 
wealth could bestow. 

To her, as to most persons born and reared in luxury, 
poverty alone would have been a very sore trial ; and here 
was a woman as delicately nurtured as herself, earning scant 


154 


In the Toils. 


food and clothing for her children by the coarsest and hard- 
est labor, and when work and wages failed, forced to see her 
sick boy suffer unrelieved, and her little ones want bread. 

“But they shall not want again,” was Esther’s mental re- 
solve when she reached home, that morning, nor did they 
while it was in her power to help them. 

Mrs. St. Clair was skilled in embroidery and fine needle- 
work, and her new friend added employment of this sort to 
that already furnfshed, and insisted on fixing the price her- 
self, which she did at such liberal figures that not only the 
necessaries of life, but comforts to which they had long been 
strangers found their way to the inmates of the log cabin. 
Besides this on all her visits, she carried some delicacy to 
the sick boy and smilingly claiming to be a better doctor 
than any one else in Salt Lake. She searched the medicine 
case she brought from the States for remedies for him, and 
had the satisfaction of seeing him improve under her treat- 
ment. Robbie’s gratitude and admiration were unbounded. 
In his eyes Mrs. Wallace was second only to his mother, and 
the cordial of her kind words and ready sympathy helped 
him as much as the medicine she brought. 

Mrs. St. Clair too found herself looking forward almost 
as anxiously as Robbie to the days on which Esther was - 
expected, and little by little she began to speak of herself 
and her life in Utah. 

She had lived in Salt Lake seven years, and four years 
out of the seven, her home had beea in the cabin in which 
her friend found her, with sickness and want for daily guests* 
Death, too, had been there, and taken the youngest of 
the flock to a home where “ they hunger no more, neither 
thirst any more, neither is there any more pain,” 

There were three children remaining: Robbie and the 
two little boys, twins, about eight years old, and for their 
sakes the mother found strength to live and suffer. 


In the Toils. 


155 

** Death would be such a boon,*' she said in one of her 
talks with Esther, “ but my children have no one but me, 
and for their sakes I pray to live. I would pray the same 
if life were tenfold more bitter. I tremble to think I may 
be taken from them, or, worse still, they may be taken from 
me.” 

“ If the dear heavenly Father takes them,” Esther an- 
swered gently, it will be well with them. He took my 
baby from my arms to His own, and, bitter as the parting 
was, I would not call it back.” 

” No more would I. Three of my little ones have gone 
to God, and I thank him every day that they are safely 
housed from such storms as have beat upon me. If he 
should call for my children that remain, I would give them 
up into His hands without a murmur. That is not what I 
fear, but whenever I do anything against counsel I am 
threatened with separation from my children by those who 
have the will and the power to carry out the threat. 

** I may be allowed to keep my little boys, but I have 
good reasons to fear that Robbie will be taken from me be- 
fore long. He will have a small fortune in his own right 
when he comes of age — twenty thousand doilars left him, 
by his uncle. As this money is in the hands of trustees back 
in our old home, it is out of the reach of the grasping priest- 
hood just now, but they mean to have it all in the end. As 
soon as Robbie is twenty-one they think they can force him 
to sign an instrument conveying the property to his father 
or to the church, and they want him in their power before 
the time arrives.” 

“ I would not distress myself about that now, if I were 
you,*’ said Esther. “ The evil day is far off, and may never 
come at all, Robbie is only a child, and much may happen 
before he is twenty-one.” 

“ He is a great deal older than he looks. He will be 


In the Toils. 


156 

seventeen in June, and I can hardly hope they will let me 
keep him two years longer; but 1 won't think of it. I can’t 
think of it and keep my reason. My poor, patient boy, who 
has suffered so much, to fall into such cruel hands at last ! 

Her eyes were bright and tearless now, and there was a 
hard, determined look on her face — a look that Esther had 
never seen there before. 

“ I have borne all things, forgiven all things, as I trust my 
God forgives me," she said. “ I do not love the man whose 
name I bear. The Eustac^St. Clair I loved once, the hus- 
band of my youth, the father of my children, died long ago. 
The Eustace St. Clair of to-day, false, treacherous and cruel, 
an adulterer, and in heart a murderer, is nothing to me, but 
if I do not love him, neither do I hate him. I have prayed 
that mercy and not vengeance might overtake him, but if he 
takes my suffering boy from me, to be tortured as I know 
those wretches would torture him, let him look well to him- 
self." 

Then in a softer tone she added : “ Poor Robbie ! he 

does not dream there is any such fate in store for him. He 
thinks his mother can help and protect him under any cir- 
cumstances." 

This conversation took place as they were walking along 
the unfrequented street leading to Mrs. St. Clair’s home, but 
lonely as the place was, it was hardly safe to say so much 
aloud, and she seemed to recollect this, for she stopped 
abruptly and began to speak on in different subjects, but as 
they drew near the house she said in a low tone: 

“I have written down the story of my life, for my child- 
ren to read after I am gone. I want to teach them to hate 
this accursed system — accursed of God and man — and they 
will hate it when they learn what it has done for their 
mother. 

“I am going to give the papers to you, to be kept until 


In the Toils. 


157 


called for. They will be safer in your hands than mine just 
now.’* 

The two little boys were out at their play, and when 
they entered the house they found. Robbie asleep. 

“ Don’t say anything to him of this ” his mother whisp- 
ered, “not for the present at least.” 

Then crossing the room softly she knelt down beside a 
small trunk at the foot of his bed, and unlocking it took out 
a manuscript, and placed it in Esther’s hands. 

“Am I to read this.? ” she asked as she received it. 

“Yes,' if you wish, and God grant you a better fate than 
mine.*’ 

Her strong self-control was giving way and her friend^ 
thinking she would be better alone pressed her hand 
silently and took her leave carrying with her the manuscrip 
containing the record of sorrows that might one day be her 
own. When she reached home, she put the papers carefully 
away, feeling that she had no right to speak of their contents 
to her husband even, and, alas that it should be so. There 
were many things besides her friend’s history, about which 
she could not speak to him now. He was kind as ever, and 
she could not doubt his love for her, but the fatal delusion 
that had mastered him was a barrier to confidence on all 
matters in which the church was in any way concerned. 
When evening came, Wallace went out to one of the fre- 
quent meetings at which his presence was required, and Es- 
ther, after putting Winnie to bed, locked the door, and 
taking down the manuscript, began to read: 

Theresa St. Clair’s Story. 

I am of German birth, and though my parents brought 
me to America when quite young, I have always retained 
a memory of the dear Fatherland. I do not know who or 
what my people were in their own country, for they never 


In the Toils. 


1 158 

I 

spoke of their past to me, but they must have had wealth, 
for I remember a large house surrounded by gardens in 
which fountains were playing and birds singing. 

Indoors were velvet sofas and silk hangings, pictures and 
statues, and many beautiful and costly things that I thought 
little about then, but missed afterwards in our new home. 

I never knew why we left Germany, but have supposed 
since I have been old enough to reflect about it, that my 
father was involved in some of the polittcal troubles of 
those times. I only know that for days he was away, and 
my mother looked very sad and wept a great deal. When 
we left, it was in the night and we went away very hurriedly 
leaving every thing in the house just as it was. My mother’s 
brother went with us and, my old nurse Bettina. I did not 
see my father until after we were on ship-board. 

When we reached this country, we settled in Baltimore, 
and our home there though not like the dear German 
home was very pleasant, but I think my mothers heart 
was broken when she left the Fatherland, for she drooped 
and faded from the hour that we set foot on the shores 
of the New World, and in little more than a year she 
died. 

My father soon followed her, and I was left to my un- 
cle’s care. He was a grave, silent man, who had never mar- 
ried, and lived alone with his books, mingling very lit- 
tle with the world, but he had a kind heart, and a very 
tender love for his dead sister’s child. We lived in the 
home that my father had chosen, with Bettina to keep the 
house for us, and there, after the first violence of my childish 
grief abated, I spent many tranquil and happy years. 

My uncle took great pains with my education, and in the 
fondness of his heart used to predict a brilliant future for 
me. 

Dear kind unworldly Uncle Rupert! He little knew what 


In th* Toils. 


159 


dangers beset the path of a motherless girl like me. I won- 
der sometimes whether he knows now of the fate of the child 
he watched over so tenderly. I hope not, for it seems to me 
I would be unhappy in Heaven, if I could look down on 
the sorrows of those I loved. 

I was eighteen when I first saw Eustace St. Clair. He 
was a lawyer, and had charge of business for my uucle 
which brought him often to our house. We lived very re- 
tired, and I had met few gentlemen except the grave, elderly 
men, my uncle’s friends, who spent an occasional evening 
with us. 

Certainly, I knew no one to compare with this Adonis, 
whose silver tongue added to the charm of his handsome 
face. I loved him before I knew the meaning of love — 
watched eagerly for his coming and was restless and ill at 
ease when he was away, without dreaming why. 

And here, let me do him justice, he loved me truly in 
those days I believe, and meant to keep the vows he made. 

We were married in six months from the time of our 
first meeting, with my uncle's hearty approval, for Eustace 
had won his heart too and I was not to be taken away from 
him. 

We were all to live together in the old home, and 
Heaven was to come down to earth, so I thought. 

“ I look back now with a strange kind of pity on the fond, 
foolish girl who used to nurse such fancies. 

If she had only died then, loving, trusting, and happy. 

In the first year of our marriage, Robbie was born. 
How I loved my baby ! How fast my happy heart beat when 
his little head lay in my bosom ! How the touch of the soft 
baby hands thrilled me through and through. 

How happy we all were, Eustace and I and dear Uncle 
Rupert ; but there was a lurking shadow at our fireside, of 
whose presence I never dreamed. 


i6o 


In the Toils, 


Uncle had inherited the germs of a fatal disease^ and 
knew himself that his days were numbered, but he hid the 
knowledge from us, and I was too much absorbed in husband 
and child, too selfish in my new-found joy, to note the fail- 
ing strength of one who had been both father and mother to 
me. 

When the blow fell, it found me all unprepared. It was 
when Robbie began to take his first uncertain steps, and 
lisp our names, that Death came over our threshold. My 
grief was real and bitter, and mingled too with self-reproach, 
but I had Eustace and my boy, and time softened my sor- 
row into a tender and reverent memory. Then another 
child came ; a little blue-eyed girl, as fair as a lily, but shf 
only staid with us three short months. 

My wounded mother-heart clung to Robbie with double 
love after she was taken, but I trembled lest he should go 
too, and began to ask myself what sin I was cherishing that 
brought such sore punishment on me. 

When still another child was born, I held it to my heart 
with a wild dread of loss, and prayed, oh how <farnestly | 
that I might keep it, but in vain. Before the year ended, ' 
sat again beside my baby’s empty cradle, asking, “ why 
hast Thou dealt thus with me.’* 

I must be in the wrong way so I reasoned, and these 
sharp strokes were to turn me back. Then out of the 
depths of my sorrow, I cried for light, and promised to fol- 
low whithersoever the Divine Hand should lead. 

That was the beginning of my aspirations after a higher, 
purer life than any I had ever known, — aspirations that have 
ended — oh God ! where and how have they ended. 

While I was in this frame of mind Eustace came home 
one day with news of a meeting to be held near us by a 
stranger, of whose doctrines he knew little, hut whose zeal 
and eloquence he said, were drawing multitudes to hear him. 


In the Toils. 


i6i 


Hitherto my husband’s indifference to religion had caused 
me much anxiety, and I was glad of the interest he mani- 
fested in the wonderful preacher and gave a ready consent 
to go with him to the meeting. 

That night I saw and heard for the first time a Latter 
Day Saint. And that night paved the way for long years of 
hopeless misery and unavailing remorse ; and yet, why do I 
say remorse? 

I was seeking the truth with all my heart, and though the 
lie I received for the truth has wrecked my life, and the lives 
of my children, God will not count my mistake a crime. 

When Satan comes as an angel of light, is it any wonder 
that mere mortals are deceived ? 

The preacher, to whose eloquent words we listened that 
night, seemed to us all he claimed to be ; the apostle of a 
new dispensation. Had he decried or rejected the written 
word of God, I at least would have shrunk from him with 
horror, but he did nothing of the kind. 

True, his interpretations of the familiar language of the 
Scriptures were novel and startling, but only so, I thought, 
because the Spirit showed him a depth of meaning in the 
word which I and others like me had failed to apprehend. 

I went home that night prepared to believe that God was 
speaking again to the world through an inspired Prophet, 
who could answer the perplexing questions that filled my 
soul. 

It would be difficult to trace and explain the successive 
steps by which we were led to embrace the Latter-Day 
gospel, but there is one fact which I wish to record dis- 
tinctly : 

The doctrines presented to us then and there differed as 
widely as day and night from that which we were asked 
to accept after we reached Utah. 

I never heard one word of the Spiritual Wife system, of. 


i 62 


In the Toils. 


Blood Atonement, or of the absolute temporal power 
exercised by the Mormon Prophet. 

These and many other hideous and repulsive features of 
the new religion were most carefully concealed from the 
converts, who were lured onward by interpretations of 
prophecy that made the second coming of Christ appear 
near at hand, and by highly wrought pictures of the happy 
valleys wherein the Saints were already gathered, waiting 
for their Lord. 

Almost as soon as we were baptized into this faith, the 
missionary began to urge us to sell all we had and go with 
him to Zion, but Eustace hesitated and waited. His faith 
in the new gospel was not as strong as mine, and he wanted 
to be very sure that the Lord called him to go, before he 
would consent to give up his prosperous business, forsake 
his home, and turn his back upon civilization. 

It is the most painful, among many bitter memories, that 
I continually urged him on, and it was due more to my 
importunities than to anything else that he finally decided 
to emigrate. 

This was two years after we heard the Mormon Mission- 
ary’s first sermon. We had been greatly prospered since 
our marriage, and with my patrimony added to what my 
husband made in his business, we could call ourselves rich. 

I thought of the early Christians, who sold all their pos- 
sessions and laid the price at the Apostle’s feet, and my 
heart burned to emulate their example, but my husband, 
less enthusiastic, said he should keep his property in his 
own hands for the present; still he converted all we had 
into money, and we took everything with us except the 
property my uncle Rupert left, which was to be Robbie’s when 
he came of age. My twin boys were only eight months old 
when we started, and the journey under such circumstan- 
ces would have looked very formidable to me, if I had not 


In the Toils. 163 

been upborne by the belief that God would lead us as he 
led his ancient people through the wilderness. 

What hopes filled my heart when we were fairly on the 
way! At last I should see a Prophet of the living God face 
to face, and hear from his lips an answer to the question 
my soul had been asking so long. 

“Lord what wilt thou have me to do ?** 

Eustace, though sincere in his acceptance of the new 
faith, did not share my hopes, but neither had he shared 
the agonizing conflict preceding them. 

“The religious element is wanting in me,” he used to say, 
and even after he embraced Mormonism, he was always 
afraid of believing too much. 

For my own part, I was almost lifted above my earthly 
surroundings by the faith that animated me. God, who 
sees all hearts, knows that my motives were pure. I asked 
nothing, sought nothing but conformity to the Divine will, 
and I was going to ally myself to a people who had suffered 
the loss of all things in obedience to that will. 

The first shock to my faith was my meeting with this 
chosen people. We traveled by ourselves as far as the 
Missouri river where we joined a company of Saints with 
whom we were to cross the plains. 

I will never forget the first day I spent among them. I 
could hardly believe my eyes and ears. 

Were these the people chosen out of the world to show 
forth the glory of the coming kingdom of Christ ? Were 
these Saints, these men with sensual faces, leering looks, 
and speaking not only the language of the world, but of a 
lower, coarser world than I had ever known.? And the 
women, some of them pale, spiritless, and wearing the look 
of slaves, crushed to the earth by their burdens and their 
chains, others bold, loud-voiced, and talking glibly of the 
principles they had embraced : Did I wish to be like them ? 


164 


In the Toils. 


I dared not hint my thoughts to Eustace but he was less 
reticent regarding his own, and freely expressed to me his 
disappointment and disgust, adding : 

“It is too late now to turn back, and we must make the 
best of our foolish venture. Perhaps I can find some sort 
of business in this Eden of yours that will be profitable and 
pay me in a measure for the sacrifice I have made. ” 

I could say nothing, for the journey was of my own plan- 
ning. I could only hope against hope that all would be 
well when we reached Zion. 

I even took myself to task for thinking so hardly of my 
fellow-travelers. Our Lord surely came to save the forlorn, 
the ignorant and the degraded, and these had been drawn to 
Zion because they needed Him. If I had but faith and 
patience to wait, I might yet witness a miracle of transfor- 
mation wrought in those coarse and vile natures, when His 
hands were laid upon them. 

So not losing my faith in God, and trying to hold fast my 
faith in Mormonism, I journeyed with husband and children 
across the desert in that strange company — a sad pilgrimage, 
and rendered doubly so by daily recurring developments of 
the character and purpose of those whose lead we were fol- 
lowing. 

It was on the dreariest and most desolate portion of our 
route that my boy met with the accident which doomed him 
to a lifetime of suffering, and then indeed it seemed that my 
cup of sorrow and self-reproach was full ; but he, dear child, 
never murmured, and comforted me when I should have 
comforted him. 

He was so sure the dear Heavenly Father would bring 
good out of all this suffering, and make all end well, that 
my own faith and courage came back to me. 

At length our journey ended, and Zion was in sight. I 
bad ceased by this time to expect much, and so my disap- 


In the Toils. 


165 

pointment was not great. It was only the third year since 
the settlement of the valley, and Eustace said, considering 
the shortness of the time and the nature of the country, 
the settlers had done wonders. 

We pitched our tent and began to build our cabin with 
the rest in a cheerful and hopeful spirit, resolved to make 
the best of every thing, and but for Robbie’s affliction I 
should have been almost content. 

The great object of the journey however, remained unac- 
complished. I had not yet seen the Prophet of the Lord 
face to face. He was not at home when we arrived, and we 
were told he might be absent six weeks. Strangely enough, 
this was a relief to me, for I dreaded the meeting with the 
Prophet as much as I had once desired it, dreaded it as the 
final blow to my faith in the Latter-day gospel ; but while 
we waited his return, that blow came from another quarter. 

While on our journey I had only mingled with my fellow- 
travellers when compelled to do so, and this will account 
for the fact that I reached Salt Lake in absolute ignorance 
of the practice of polygamy. 

True, I had heard something about “ Spiritual wives,” 
and “ celestial marriage,” but I never dreamed of the sys- 
tem of concubinage and wholesale adultery to which these 
terms referred. 

When I found that our nearest neighbor (a bishop, by the 
way,) had three women living under his roof, all of whom 
had borne children to him, and each of whom he called 
“ wife,” a wave of indignation and horror swept away the 
last vestige of belief in the false teachings to which I had 
listened. 

I did not need now to be assured that the Prophet was an 
impostor and when I saw him for the first time, as he arose 
to speak to an assemblage of his people, his true character 
was as plain to me as it is to-day. 


i66 


In the Toils. 


His sermon, on the occasion referred to, consisted chiefly 
of coarse and vindictive denunciations of all peoples and 
governments outside of the “ Kindom of God*’ as he de- 
nominated his own rule. 

His closing remarks were addressed to his followers, 
whom he berated for various short-comings. The women, 
some of whom it seems had grown restive under the double 
tyranny of their masters and the church, came in for their 
share of invective, clothed in such language that I glanced 
round involuntarily, wondering how men with sisters and 
wives could sit still and listen to it, but none of the brethren 
showed the least sign of discomposure. 

I would have risen and left the place, but my husband 
laid a detaining hand on my arm. 

“ Wait” he whispered “we must not make ourselves con- 
spicuous by going out now. It might not be safe.” 

When we reached home, I asked him what he meant. 

“Just this,” he answered, “ while we are in Rome, we must 
not fight against Roman ways. I can’t say that the sermon 
this morning was very much to my taste, but since we are 
here and obliged to stay, I am not going to render myself 
obnoxious to the ruling powers.’’ 

“ But you don’t believe that man to be a Prophet, and you 
are convinced as well as I that we have been grossly de- 
ceived, and that Mormonism is an imposture from beginning 
to end. Is it not so.^ ” 

“ Don’t cross-question me,” he answered lightly. “ It is 
one of your own sages who says : 

“Die Wahrheit und die Rosa sind schoen; beide aber, haben 
Dornen.” 

Surely, Eustace was changing. 

The religious element might have been wanting in him 
always as he said, but heretofore I had given him credit for 


In the Toils. 167 

clear perceptions of right and wrong, a keen sense of honor, 
and courage enough to be true to his convictions. 

As month after month passed away in our new home, the 
change became more apparent. Still a tender husband and 
kind father, he was in all other respects, so unlike himself 
that his friends of earlier days would not have recognized 
him. 

He was much in the company of the Mormon leaders, and 
obviously a favorite with them, and I charged the transfor- 
mation to their influence. He affected great faith in their 
teachings, of which I knew he did not believe a word, — and 
indeed I think few of them believed what they taught them- 
selves. Those were sad years, when I was compelled to 
watch the gradual deterioration of the noble nature which 
had won and kept my love. 

Outwardly all went well with us; we built a comfortable 
house which was much better furnished than those of our 
neighbors. The property we brought with us increased, for 
Eustace was quite in earnest about making money out oi 
our settlement in Zion, and he succeeded. 

All of us except Robbie had excellent health, and even 
he was much better than we could have hoped. 

Thus more than two years passed away before the storm 
broke upon me that wrecked my life. 

Up to this time, but little had been said in our home 
about the cruel and horrible system that degraded the 
women around us below the level of slaves. 

I did not go out much, still I could not help seeing some- 
thing of Polygamy but knowing how powerless I was to help 
its wretched victims, I tried to shut my eyes and ears. 

If ever I spoke to Eustace about it, he answered with a 
jest, usually adding : 

“ Why should we trouble ourselves about that which does 
not concern us? It will be time enough for you to tak-e 


i68 


In the Toils. 


those matters to heart when you are personally involved.** 

In the third year after our arrival in Utah, I hired a girl 
by the name of Lydia Ellis to live with us. She was English 
and rather more intelligent than most persons of her class ; 
handsome too, as my neighbors observed, when comment- 
ing on my folly in taking such a girl into the house, but Ly- 
dia’s crisp curls, bright eyes and red cheeks, gave me no 
disquiet. 

She was neat and capable and lightened my house-keep- 
ing cares greatly. She was kind to the children also, and I 
congratulated myself on having secured her services as I 
was now in delicate health, and needed some one upon 
whom I could rely. 

As the months passed and my hour of trial drew near, I 
was often very ill, and so depressed that I wondered at my- 
self. All my courage seemed to have deserted me, and I 
chided myself for the sad, tear-stained face which I thought 
made home unpleasant to my husband, for at this time, when 
I felt the need of his love so much, he was away from me 
more than he had ever been before in our whole married 
life. 

He was very busy, he said, and even when with me he 
was absent-minded and pre-occupied. 

I missed the petting tenderness with which he always 
treated me when ill, and the little attentions that mean so 
much to a woman, though a man might count them trifles. 

Eustace was changed, greatly changed, I did not try to 
hide that from myself, but not the faintest suspicion of what 
was in his mind had' dawned upon me, when one evening 
he came into my room and locked the door, saying he 
wished to speak to me without being interrupted. 

He was very pale, and there was a look in his eyes that 
made my heart stand still with a vague terror ; — and yet 
I never dreamed of what, was coming. 


In the Toils. 


169 


“ Theresa,” he began at length, “ I have tried to be a good 
husband- to you; I think you will own that few women have 
been treated with more tenderness. That I have loved you, 
you know, but my love for you has been a snare to me. It 
has drawn me from the path of duty, and made me insensi- 
ble to higher obligations.” 

I had risen as he spoke and stood before him breathless, 
trembling and bewildered. 

“ Eustace,” I gasped, “ what does all this mean.? Are you 
mad.** 

“ No,*’ he answered, “ I was never saner, but I have made 
up my mind to live my religion at any cost, and fulfill all 
the duties it imposes, and as soon as you are able to go 
with us to the Endowment House, I am to be sealed to 
Lydia Ellis for time and eternity.” 

I heard the dreadful words only as a drowning man hears 
the roaring of the waters about his head. Strength and 
consciousness were fast leaving me. The last thing I re- 
membered was a throe of intense bodily pain. Then a great 
gulf of darkness swallowed me up and I knew no more. 

When I came to myself, I was lying on my bed and an 
old woman, bent and wrinkled but with a kind, motherly 
face, sat beside me. 

A taper burned dimly on the farther side of the room, a 
little stand by the pillow was covered with cups and bottle 
and the odor of some powerful drug prevaded the apart- 
ment. 

I tried to move, but found I could not even raise my 
hand to my head. The old nurse rose and bent over me. 

“What is the matter?** I asked and my own voice 
sounded strange to me, it was so hoarse and weak. 

“ You have been very sick, poor dear, but you are better 
now. You must not try to talk.** 


170 


In the Toils. 


Then putting a cup to my lips, she told me to drink and 
and try to sleep. 

I obeyed, but though too weak to move I was wakeful, 
and lay watching the woman’s face, wondering vaguely who 
she was and how she came there. In a little while I heard a 
faint wail from the crib near my bed, and saw the nurse take 
up a tiny bundle. Up to this moment I remembered noth- 
ing, not even my condition, but the cry that reached my ears 
roused me as from a dream. 

Slowly my benumbed faculties awoke to life, and I began 
to recall the latest events of which I had been conscious, 
but the day on which I was taken ill was yet a blank, 

I must know more, and disregarding the nurse’s injunc- 
tion I spoke again: 

“ Is that my baby? Bring it here and let me see it.” 

“It’s your baby, sure enough, and little we all thought that 
its mother would live to see its face. You knew nothing 
for three days before the baby came, and it’s now three 
days since, but we will have you well soon if you try to rest 
and don’t fret.” 

Why should I fret, I thought, but I only said “ Give me 
the baby, and I will go to sleep.” 

The old woman hesitated a moment, but finally placed it 
in my arms ; poor powerless arms, too weak to clasp my 
child, as they were too weak to hold and shield her in after 
days. 

But the baby's face, nestled against my breast, brought a 
sense of content, and in a little while we both slept. I 
awoke in the early hours of the morning, feeling much bet- 
ter and stronger, and began to ask for my husband and 
the boys, but the nurse again begged me not to talk, and 
said if I wanted to get well I must see no one for the 
present. 

Two or three days went by in this manner, and then I 


In the Toils. 


171 


begged so earnestly at least to see Robbie, that his chair 
was wheeled into my room, but he was not allowed to stay 
and talk with me. 

In the afternoon, Eustace came, but he only stood at my 
bedside long enough to ask if I was better, and then after 
saying a few words to the nurse, left the room. I wondered 
at this, but supposed it must be on account of the perfect 
quiet that was necessary to my recovery. Of my last in- 
terview with him, and the words that struck me down sense- 
less at his feet, I had absolutely no recollection. 

After the lapse of a week or more, I found myself so much 
stronger that the nurse consented to bolster me up in bed. As 
I looked round the disordered room, I asked : 

“ Where is Lydia ? She might come in and help you put 
things to rights. 

The old woman gave me a pitying glance, but did not 
reply at once ; finally she said ! 

“ I thought you would not like to have Lydia come in. ** 

“ Why not ? " I asked, but before she could answer I saw 
as in a flash of lightning my husband’s face as it appeared 
on the dreadful night that had been a blank to me until 
now, and heard him saying “ I am to be sealed to Lydia 
Ellis for time and eternity. ” 

Everything in the room swam round me, but I did not 
faint nor cry out. A strength that surely was not my own 
sustained body and soul. I looked down on my baby 
sleeping beside me, and on the porch outside I heard the 
pattering feet of my little boys. 

My children needed me. Henceforth they would have 
only their mother. I must not die. 

I did not die but gained strength steadily, day by day. 
My husband made occasional visits to my rooms, and in- 
quired formally after my health, and I answered always 


l *]2 • 


In tHE Toils. 


with composed face and voice that I was improving, and 
hoped soon to be well. 

I never saw him alone until my health was quite restored ; 
then I sent for him and he obeyed the summons. 

The whole of that interview I cannot trust myself to relate. 
I heard without surprise that the “ sealing ” of which he had 
spoken was consummated, and that Lydia Ellis occupied the 
place which had been mine for fifteen years. I heard too a 
homily upon wifely obedience, and an exhortation to accept 
of the doctrine of plural marriage and thereby make my own 
salvation sure. 

What reply I gave it is needless to record. I wasted no 
breath in reproaches or complaints, nor did I ask anything 
except that out of my own money, which Eustace had in his 
hands, a home might be provided elsewhere for me and my 
children. 

This he at first positively refused, and when I said that I 
should leave his house before another sunset, whether he 
provided a home for me or not, he told me I might go 
when and where I would, but the children should stay with 
him. 

I had never dreamed that he would dare to utter such a 
threat even, and the possibility that he might do as he said 
maddened me. 

I remember catching up a knife that lay on the table, 
with a wild impulse to put an end to his life or mine, but 
the Saint who had witnessed my tortures thus far with the 
admirable calmness that must have distinguished the Spanish 
Inquisitors while their victims were on the rack, coolly dis- 
armed me, and said with a sardonic smile : 

“On the whole, I think I will let you go. These little 
domestic scenes, though interesting at first, become weari- 
some by repetition, and I perhaps might in time become a 
fault-finding husband,— a thing that I abhor. So if you 


In th* Toils. 


173 

please, you may prepare to move tomorrow into a house of 
my selection, you and the children. 

“ They may remain with you for the present, and possibly 
.the knowledge that I can take them from you any day or 
hour may help to subdue your impetuosity ; — the only fault 
you have, my dear. ** 

What refinements of cruelty can be -practiced upon a 
mother! With my children in his power, Eustace could 
torture me at will, — could exact any pledge, any sacrifice 
from me. 

And just here lies the secret of the power of the Mor- 
mon Priesthood over the women who loathe their teachings 
and would welcome death in any shape rather than the 
slavery to which they are doomed, if other lives were not 
bound up in theirs. 

I was helpless and did as the helpless must ; — submitted 
to any fate. I was allowed to pack my trunk with a few 
articles of clothing for myself and the children, a little 
bedding and furniture was loaded into the wagon that 
waited to receive us and I and my little ones were driven 
away from what had been our home. 

It was a sad and bitter going out into the world, but in- 
finitely preferable to remaining in the house of the man who 
had ceased to be my husband, and when our scanty furni- 
ture was set up in the cabin to which we were taken, and a 
fire lighted in the hearth, a sense of security and peace, a 
feeling that was almost happiness, came over me. I had my 
children and for the present, at least, there was none to 
molest or make us afraid under the humble roof that shel- 
tered us. 

Robbie was the only one able to understand the change that 
had come over our lives, and he, with a faith and patience 
that shamed me, bore everything without a murmur, and 


174 


In the Toils. 


talked cheerfully of our Heavenly Father s love, and of the 
good days he had yet in store for us. 

For a few months we lived in this way, without 
the added sufferings of hunger or cold. 

Eustace provided us with the necessaries of life during 
the winter, but in the spring his attentions began to slacken, 
and at last there were days when the children wanted 
food. 

My own money was all in his hands, as I have said, and 
my children's hunger drove me to beg help of him. 

Sometimes my requests were granted, sometimes disre- 
garded. 

I tried to earn something to keep us from want, but work 
was hard to get and poorly paid. 

At length my baby fell sick, — my little girl who came to 
me in the darkest hour of my life. 

She was never strong, and had known the pangs of hun- 
ger like the rest of us. It was hard, God only knows how 
hard to see the pitiful, patient look in those baby eyes when 
her lips sought her mother’s breast in vain. 

Hunger for me meant hunger for my darling, and there 
were days when I wonder I did not go mad, as I searched 
my empty cupboard vainly for a crust of bread. 

What wonder that my baby pined away until I saw the 
seal of death upon her face ! 

The last day of her life, we had food in the house, but no 
light as the night drew on, not even firelight, for I could not 
leave my dying child to gather the sage-bush that made our 
summer fuel. 

A little after sunset, I saw Eustace coming up the street. 

He would stop surely, I thought, for he knew the child 
was sick, — but no, he passed right on. 

In my desperation, I laid my baby on the bed and rushed 
after him. 


In the Toils. 


175 

“ Eustace,” I cried, “the baby is dying and I have no light 
in the house. Are you going to leave us so.^ 

He never paused or turned his head, and I went back to 
my children, feeling that I had made my last appeal to 
him. 

That night! — Can I ever forget it, even when I see my 
baby in the paradise of God.^ 

It was a cloudy summer night, moonless and intensely 
dark. My little boy slept and Robbie alone shared my 
sorrowful vigil. 

The baby did not suffer, at least I thought not, and for 
that I thanked the Father of mercies ; she was passing 
away quietly and painlessly. 

It must have been still early in the evening, when I found 
I could no longer discern a pulsation in the tiny wrist I held 
in my hand, or hear the faint, fluttering breath, when I 
placed my ear to her lips. 

My baby was dead, and my first thought was to thank 
God that she was spared such sorrows as her mother had 
endured. 

But oh! the long hours I sat with my dead child in my 
arms, waiting for daylight. 

In that awful darkness, I composed as best I could the 
waxen limbs, and pressed down the lids over the blue eyes, 
whose piteous, appealing looks would never pierce my heart 
again. 

My baby, my darling! She had gone where they hunger 
no more ; where the tears are wiped from all faces. 

The loving, merciful Father of all, had taken my worse 
than fatherless little one, to his own tender arms. 

I thanked Him for that; I thank Him still — and yet how 
1 have longed to see my baby’s face once more. 

When she is restored to me in the paradise of God shall 


In the Toils. 


i7< 

I forget the anguish of giving her up without one last 
look? 

The night seemed endless. There was nothing to mark 
the hours that dragged so slowly past. 

I sat beside Robbie’s bed until the deathly chill from 
the little form in my arms penetrated my flesh and seemed 
to reach my heart. 

Would daylight never come? Yes, thank God! the first 
faint streaks of dawn began to show themselves in the 
East. 

Blessed light! And yet the first sight it showed me was 
the lifeless face of my darling. 

As the morning advanced, our nearest neighbors, rough 
but kindly people, came in, and when they saw our situation 
offered to go for Eustace at once. 

I said nothing and thinking me too much absorbed in my 
sorrow to speak, they dispatched one of their number to 
bring him, while the others remained to perform such kind 
offices as they were able to. 

When Eustace came, bringing with him some of the 
brethren, he acted the part of an affectionate and bereaved 
parent to perfection. He even shed tears over the little one 
murdered by his own cruelty and and neglect, and in tones 
of sorrowful reproach asked “Why, my dear wife, why did 
you not send for me before?” 

If there had been one lingering spark of love in my 
heart for him, it died out then. From that hour, I have 
thought of him only with loathing. He lives in the pleasant 
house that was my home once, and Lydia shares it with 
him, but the knowledge of his love for her does not now 
give me a single jealous pang. 

A child has been born to them, and I heard of it with- 
out emotion. 


In the Toils. 


177 

My dead and buried love cannot cause me to suffer as 
living love did. 

There is no hope for me in this world, none. The moun- 
tain ranges that surround these valleys are the walls of my 
prison-house. I cannot escape. 

Death is the only angel that can open the door for me 
and loose my bonds, and for his coming I must not pray, 
because my life belongs to my children. When they cease 
to need me I believe deliverance will come. Until then I 
do not ask it. 

If my sorrows shall be the means of teaching my sons to 
abhor the false and cruel faith that caused them, I will 
not have suffered in vain. I leave what I have written down 
to be read by them when they reach manhood, and their 
mother has found the shelter of the Grave, 


PART II.— Chapter hi. 

“help! help!*’ — WEAVING THE TOILS — BROTHER DANIELS 

A VICTIM — RESOLVING UPON ESCAPE — HARWOOD’s DESIGNS 

THE EMIGRANT TRAIN. 

Esther had wiped away many tears, as she perused the 
record of a noble life, so sadly clouded. As she refolded 
the papers and restored them to their . hiding-place she was 
tempted to ask : 

“ Why does God permit a sincere soul to fall into such a 
pit?” 

Theresa St. Clair, she knew, was not the only one to 
whom Satan had come as an angel of light. There were 
hundreds in these valleys, whose motives were as pure, 
whose faith was as sincere as hers, and like her they had 
been snared to their own destruction. 

“And I,” she thought, “ who came here not because I be- 
lieved the lying message of a self-styled Apostle, but because 
I wanted to be true to my marriage vow, and cleave to my 
husband through good and ill, I am likely to reap my reward 
with the rest.” • 

She leaned out of the window, and gazed across the 
moonlit valley, to where the rugged peaks of the Wasatch 
stood up, dark and frowning, against the clear sky. 

Well might poor Theresa St. Clair exclaim : 

“ They are the walls of my prison-house.” 

No chained captive, pining in his dungeon, was evermore 
completely separated from the outer world and cut off from 


In the Toils. 


179 


succor, than the helpless women between whom and liberty 
rose those rocky barriers, with the savage desert behind 
them. 

The picture impressed her painfully. Was not she too a 
prisoner, with as little prospect of release as any of her 
fellow- captives? 

Even if her husband should lose his faith in Mormonism, 
there was no hope for them. They were in the custody 
of jailors who permitted no escapes. 

She was still at her window, looking out over the sleeping 
city, when the little clock on the mantel struck the hour of 
midnight. Her husband had not yet returned, and she be- 
gan to feel uneasy at his prolonged absence. 

Could anything have happened to him? The meeting he 
had gone to attend was only four blocks away, and the full 
moon made the streets as light almost as in the day-time. 

She would not have been afraid to venture out herself, 
everything seemed so quiet ; but even while the thought 
passed through her mind, a sharp cry rang out on the still 
night air : 

“Help! Help!” 

It was a woman’s voice, and almost in the same moment 
the startled listener distinguished the words : 

“ For the love of Heaven spare my life.” 

Then another half smothered cry, and all was still. 

The next minute she saw a man turn the corner and walk 
rapidly towards her own house. It was her husband, and as 
she opened the door to admit him, two more men came in 
sight. 

They were running, and as it seemed to her from the 
direction in which she had heard the cry for help. 

Wallace drew his wife one side, almost roughly, and 
hastily shut and bolted the door. As he did so, she noticed 
his pale and haggard looks, and with a fresh sense of alarm, 


i8o In the Toils. 

she inquired what had happened, and whether he knew the 
meaning of the cries she had heard. 

“ If you love me, Esther, don’t ask me anything about it,’* 
he said, “ a wrong-doer has been punished, but it is a matter 
in which neither you nor I have any right to interfere, and 
I beg, for your own sake, as well as mine, that if you have 
heard anything you will not let it be known. I am sorry 
your light was 'burning, and hope no one will find out that 
you were up when I came home.” 

“ Charles,” Esther said, speaking slowly and looking 
steadily at him, “ a great wrong has been done, of that I 
am sure. I heard a woman’s voice begging for life, and 
then a smothered sound, as though a choking hand at her 
throat stifled her cries. Is it possible that you have witnessed 
a murder without attempting to rescue the victim.?* ” 

“ I have witnessed nothing, and I wish to Heaven I had 
heard nothing, but I wafn you again that both of us must 
hide our knowledge of what has happened to-night. To 
speak of it would be to court destruction for ourselves,with- 
out helping any one else.” 

“You know then, what those cries meant,” 

“ Esther, do you want to drive me mad? I have told you 
that a wrong-doer has been punished. There are sins that 
cannot be atoned without the shedding of blood, and the 
Priesthood count it their duty to purify Zion by cutting off 
such sinners from the earth. If they are wrong, I cannot 
help it, and now I beg that you will say nothing more.” 

Esther was silent, but in her heart she resolved to know 
more. In some way she feared that the Priesthood, of 
whose bloody work she had heard before, had managed to 
implicate her husband in this night’s crime. 

The next day, she made an errand to Mrs. Nye’s thinking 
that she might learn something there. She found her neigh- 
bor alone, and after a few common-place remarks, asked her 


In the Toils. i8i 

directly whether she had heard anything unusual the night 
before. 

“ I could not well help hearing/* was the answer “ as the 
police, who are the most effective agents of the Priesthood, 
here in the city, seized Pauline R — , almost at my door.** 

“ Who was she and what had she done ? ’* 

“ Pauline is the pretty little Jewess whom you may have 
seen about the city during the spring and summer, selling 
handkerchiefs and embroideries. She came here last year 
with her father. They belonged to a company of California 
emigrants who stopped in Salt Lake a little while, but the 
old man thought he saw a good opening for hii business 
here, and so remained and professed a great interest in the 
doctrines of the Saints. He may have been baptized even^ 
though of this I am not sure, but I know he has paid his 
tithing regularly. I have no idea that he has the least faith 
in Mormonism. It is a simple matter of business with him, 
and Pauline, more honest or less prudent than her father, 
has expressed her real sentiments too freely. Besides this 
she had been about a good deal in Mormon families, and 
learned some things that ought not to be told, and that she 
could not be trusted to keep secret ; but I think she precip- 
itated her fate by a bold and strongly-worded refusal to 
become Elder Warren *s third wife. 

He is a man who never forgives, and he has influence 
enough to get those who offend him put out of the way. I 
knew some days ago that poor little Pauline was doomed, 
but I could not warn her, and if I could what good would it 
have done.^ She was like all the rest of us, snared in a net 
whose meshes cannot be broken. There is no hope nor 
help for any woman who don't accept Polygamy as a divine 
ordinance. 

“ You say you knew she was doomed, how did you find it 
out?” 


i 82 


In the Toils. 


** Oh I heard numbers of the brethren and some of 
the sisters saying that Pauline had taken to bad ways. That 
is the first thing they say about a woman here after they 
have decided that she must die. Then one of the Bishops 
lamented that all his exhortations had been disregarded by 
sister Pauline, and said that if they could save her in no 
other way, it was better for the body to perish than the 
soul.’* 

“ But they did not murder her right here, at your door.” 

Esther asked this with pale cheek and eyes distended with 
horror. 

“ No. They bound and gagged her, and carried her 
away. I do not know certainly how they disposed of her, 
but I think she was drowned in the Jordan. If so she is 
not the first woman who has found a grave in its waters.” 

“ But how came she here at your house ? ” 

“ She was not at my house. She was spending the night 
with a friend of her’s in the next block, and about mid- 
night was decoyed into the street by a message that her 
father had been taken suddenly ill and had sent for 
her.” 

“ I can’t realize that such crimes are committed with im- 
punity — that there is no such thing as a law to punish 
murder ? ” 

“ My dear Mrs. Wallace, we have laws in plenty on the 
statute books of the Territory. The only trouble is, this peo- 
ple live above the law, as their Prophet says. If a man should 
kill his neighbor without being ‘counseled ’ to do so ht 
might be tried for murder and possibly executed, but kill- 
ing any one in obedience to counsel isn’t murder, it is puri- 
fying Zion or destroying the body to save the soul.” 

“ Have you any idea who was concerned in the murder 
of this girl ? ” 

“I saw those who bound her and carried her away' 


In the Toils. 


183 

There were four of them, all members of, the police force. 
Two of the men I know very well ; the other two I have 
often seen on the street, but don’t know their names. 

“ Besides these, there was a man standing at each end of 
the block, to keep the coast clear, as I suppose." 

“ How came you to see all this ? ” 

** My room fronts on the street, as you know. I was in bed, 
but not asleep, and when I heard the first noise, I sprang 
up and looked out of the window. The full moon made 
the whole street as light as day, and the men were near 
enough for me to recognize them. Fortunately for myself, 
I had no light burning and so was not discovered at the 
window. Otherwise I might have shared Pauline’s fate. 
The law here is * mind your own business and ask no ques- 
tions,’ and we are repeatedly told that if we should see any 
one lying dead beside the way as we walk along the street, 
we pught to pass on and give ourselves no concern about 
it." 

“ But you say you heard Pauline’s case talked over some 
days ago, so it seems her fate could not have been meant to 
kept secret.” 

“ No. Those who counselled her death don’t wish to 
conceal the fact that her blood has been shed to atone for 
her sins, as they say, but in view of the possibility that the 
affair might be inquired into some day, they wish to guard 
against eye-witnesses, who could testify to the identity of 
the murderers, and if the Priesthood knew what I have told 
you to-day, my fate would be sealed. My husband was 
away from home, and has not returned yet, and I shall not 
dare to tell him anything about it when he comes.” 

“ He would not betray you ? ” 

“ No, certainly not intentionally, but he would be in con- 
tinual fear that the secret would be discovered, and the 


184 


In the Toils. 


distress and anxiety that he could not hide would arouse 
suspicion.” 

“ Did he know anything about the counsel given to put 
Pauline out of the way ? ” 

“ He heard the the matter talked about, as I did, but I 
don’t think it was decided until last night, when they called 
a meeting of the brethren and the policemen received their 
orders.” 

Esther turned very pale. 

This then was the meeting they had summoned her hus- 
band to attend. They had made him share their fearful 
secret, and so far implicated him in their crime. He had 
not dared to protest, and henceforth his knowledge of the 
bloody deed would make him their slave. 

Mrs. Nye observed her friend's agitation and easily 
guessed the cause. She had been among the Saints long 
enough to know that it was the policy of the leaders to 
implicate their followers in something that would outlaw 
them, and prevent their return to the world they had 
left. 

Her own husband, she feared, carried more than one 
guilty secret locked in his breast ; and Esther’s next words 
were the echo of her own thoughts. 

“I see no hope of escaping from this den of bandits and 
murderers. All of us, like poor Pauline, know too much.” 

“ That is true enough, but to me it is sometimes the bit- 
terest thought connected with my fate, that my friends at 
home who know I am held an unwilling captive, have made 
no effort to rescue me.” 

“If you have found means to communicate with your 
friends, you have been more fortunate than I, I have writ- 
ten many times, but have received no reply, and I am led 
to believe that none of my letters entrusted to the mails 
have left the Territory.” 


In the Toils. 


i8S 

“ I don't suppose they have. The correspondence' of 
suspected persons like ourselves is always taken care of ; 
but I have sent my letters through other channels. Com- 
panies of California emigrants pass this way every summer, 
and as they generally stop a few days in Salt Lake, I have 
managed to get some of them to carry out letters for me to 
be mailed in San Francisco. There is a small party expect- 
ed here this week, and you may have an opportunity of 
doing the same.*' 

‘‘ I hope so. I would like at least to get a letter or a mes- 
sage to the parents of poor Bessie Gordon." 

“ That is the girl who died at your house last winter ? 
You incurred great risk in giving her shelter, and if you 
want her parents to know her fate, you must exercise the 
utmost caution. There is no power here that can save you 
if you are detected in the attempt to expose the secrets of 
our prison-house." 

" I will be cautious, but I have not given up my faith in 
God yet. I believe He can deliver us out of the hands of 
our enemies even here." . 

‘‘ He might help you perhaps, for you have not denied 
Him, but I dare not ask Him to help me." 

“ I am sorry you feel so my dear friend. I wish I could 
show you how wrong you are." 

“ Oh I am all wrong, — I know that well enough, — and the 
wrong began the day I consented to cast in my lot with this 
horde of murderers, but we wont talk about that. Have 
you seen Brother Daniels lately?” 

“No. Why do you ask ? " 

“ Because I am afraid he too has fallen a victim to the 
doctrine of Blood Atonement. You knew that he had put 
away Jane, his second wife ? " 

“ I heard something about it a few weeks ago, but I have 


In the Toils. 


1 86 

not seen him since except in the presence of people in 
whose hearing I did not like to question hijn.” 

“ Well, he sent her away last month. He gave her a good 
house to live in, and made ample provision for her and 
her children, but he was rash enough or brave enough to tell 
his real reason for separating from her, which is that he no 
longer believes in polygamy, — thinks it to be of the devil, 
in fact, a conclusion that any body might reach by observ- 
ing its practical workings fora little while.*' 

‘‘Jane takes the separation very much to heart, and is loud 
in her compaints. She is a weak and silly woman, but has been 
very fond of Daniels in her way, and very vain of the fact 
that he treated her just the same as her sister Mary, who is his 
lawful wife and her superior in every respect. I think 
Daniels counted the cost fully before he took this step. 
I know from a word he dropped the last time I saw him, that 
he realized his danger and there is but too much reason to 
fear that has met the fate he foreboded. I cannot learn 
that he has been seen by anybody for ten days past. Mary 
is sick, — unable to leave her room, — and even poor silly 
Jane carries a scared face. Daniels is missing, but Brigham 
Young knows what has become of him. I am just as certain 
of that as though he had told me so himself.” 

“ I hope you are mistaken, but if not, Brother Daniels 
has done better to die for the truth than to live for the lie 
that has brought this whole people under a curse.” 

“ I think so too, though I am not brave enough to follow 
his example. The continued falsehood of my daily life is 
in itself a punishment too great to bear, and yet I have’nt 
the courage to tell the truth. I hate the whole abominable 
system prevailing here, and hate myself for being numbered 
with such a people, but I dare not say so.” 

If anything were wanting to complete the dark picture 
drawn by her fears the night before, the missing touches were 


In the Toils. 


187 


snpplied for Esther by the recital to which she had listened, 
and her heart sank like lead in her bosom as she turned her 
steps homeward. In her husbands’ present morbid state of 
mind, she did not doubt but that his knowledge of the deed 
of blood weighed upon his conscience like actual guilt. 
But while his better nature as yet recoiled from the horrid 
doctrine of Blood Atonement, he held fast his faith in Mor- 
monism as a whole, and since he had been brought to ac- 
cept polygamy as a Divine ordinance, he might come in time 
to believe it his duty to obey counsel, even to the shedding 
of blood. 

Her friend’s words still rang in her ears — “ Snared in a 
net whose meshes cannot be broken.” There was no hope 
for her husband, none for herself, and, — most bitter thought 
of all, — none for her child. What would be Winnie’s fate 
if death should deprive her of her mother’s protection ? 
Would her father sacrifice her as fathers on every side of 
them were sacrificing their daughters ? 

She shuddered, and tried to put away the thought. Her 
child, her only one, her beautiful darling, it was a cruel deed 
to bring her here. 

“And yet,” thought the unhappy mother, “ I meant right, 
God knows I did. Will he forsake me utterly in this time 
of sorest need ? ” 

Then she recalled the words that gave her strength and 
comfort at the first. “When thou passest through the 
waters I will be with thee, and through the floods, they shall 
not overflow thee. When thou passest through the fire thou 
shalt not be burned neither shall the flame kindle upon 
thee.” 

A calm fell upon her perturbed spirit, as she repeated 
to herself the unfailing promise of the Mighty One, who 
alone is able to deliver all who put their trust in Him. Let 
those who doubt the book in which His promises are writ- 


i88 


In ths Toils. 


ten, explain, if they can, why they have comforted the 
desolate and despairing everywhere and always if they are 
not, as one has said “God’s good tidings spoken afresh in 
every soul, rather than the mere dying echo of words uttered 
centuries ago.” 

Esther did not doubt, but like all of us, she forgot too 
often the unseen presence of the Divine Helper. As she 
continued her walk homeward, with a firmer step and a 
more assured bearing, she turned over in her mind the plans 
that she had formed and dismissed a score of times during 
the last twenty-four hours, for escaping from the valley 
with her child. 

Mrs. Nye said that companies of California emigrants 
stopped here on their way every summer. If so, might it 
not be possible to get out of the country under their pro- 
tection.? She had money put away safely, double the 
amount she would need to take her home by the way of 
California, and she need not therefore excite her husband’s 
suspicions by asking him for so large a sum. The money 
she brought with her had most of it been in his hands since 
they came to Salt Lake, and she must leave it behind her 
if she made good her escape, but she did not give that a 
second thought. Her flight, supposing flight to be possible 
would cost her far more than the money she brought to 
the Territory, for it involved the loss of the lover of her 
youth, the father of the children, the husband who, not- 
withstanding the gulf that separated them, was still un- 
speakably dear to her. 

As his face rose up before her, her resolution faltered 
as it had done many times the night before, while she 
shaped her plans as he slept peacefully beside her. 

Winnie, it is true, was only eight years old, and the evil 
day might be far off, but she was growing too beautiful for 
her own safety or her mother’s peace of mind ; too beauti- 


In the Toils. 


189 


ful to be left here where a young girl with a fair face was 
like a lamb in the wolfs den. Twice during the past 
winter, Esther had seen mere children of fourteen, dragged 
to the Endowment House, in spite of their own terrors and 
their mother's tears and protestations, to be sealed to hoary- 
headed members of the Priesthood who had half a score of 
wives already. Anything was better than to risk such a fate 
for her own darling, and since she was convinced that her 
husband was now so completely in the power of the Church 
that he would not dare to withhald his child, if ordered to 
sacrifice her; the only hope left to the wife and mother, 
was that of escaping by flight, and this hope hung on a 
very slender thread. Many had made the attempt and met 
their fate at the hands of the Destroying Angels before 
reaching the borders of the Territory. 

Others had been followed two and three hundred miles 
outside of the Territory and finally overtaken and killed, 
but a' few had succeeded, and their success encouraged her 
to believe that escape was possible. 

At any rate she would try. There were no perils she 
would not dare, — no hardships she would not endure, — for 
Winnie's sake. 

This was her final resolve as she drew near her home, 
when raising her eyes, she saw her daughter running to meet 
her. The little girl's cheeks were flushed and she looked 
frightened and distressed, as she caught her mother's hand 
and clung to it for protection. ^ 

“ Oh mamma," she panted, as soon as she could speak," 
who do you think is at our house.? That dark man that 
came to see us in New York, and persuaded papa to go to 
Utah. I was in the room when became, and papa made me 
go and give him my hand, and he held me fast and kisSed 
me. I was so afraid of him, I felt as if I should die, I did 
indeed mamma, and he would not let me go, but held my 


190 


In the Toils. 


hand and said I had grown a large girl and he smoothed my 
hair and said how pretty I was, and that he meant to ask 
papa for me by and by ; and he knew papa would give me 
to him ; and papa looked, — oh I can’t tell you how he 
looked, but he was as pale as he used to be when he was 
sick, and he never said one word. I ran out of doors as 
soon as he let go my hand. I can’t help it if papa does 
punish me, for I could not stay in the house another 
minute.” 

‘‘Hush dear; speak lower. Your papa will not punish 
you.” 

“ And you won’t let him give me away to that dreadful 
man.?” 

“No, never.” 

Esther spoke with an assurance that surprised herself, as 
she held the small, trembling hand that lay in her own with 
a firm clasp. She would save her child. She could save 
her. Maternal love made her strong enough to face the 
whole Mormon priesthood, and in her heart she defied them 
She would watch over Winnie night and day until the hour 
came, as it surely would come, when they could fly from this 
accursed spot. They might perish by the way, but de^th 
would be a thousand times better than such a life as they 
must look forward to if they remained. 

Harwood’s words which any where else would have been 
taken as harmless pleasantry, had only too much meaning 
in them when spoken here. 

Esther remembered with a shiver of fear and loathing the 
way in which his baleful eyes were fixed on her beautiful child 
as well as on herself when she last saw him. He had been 
their evil genius from the first. No one else could have in- 
fluenced Wallace as he had, and now his power over him 
would be greater than ever. 

‘Tf Harwood should demand me as well as Winnie would 


In the Toils, 


191 

Charles dare to refuse him I wonder?’* she asked herself 
bitterly. 

Hitherto she had thought little of herself, or of any pos- 
sible personal danger. Her fears were for her husband and 
child, and even now she did not for a moment seriously 
entertain the thought that the same fate she dreaded for 
Winnie might befall herself. 

And yet, facts had come to her knowledge within the past 
few weeks that might have aroused her fears. A near 
neighbor of theirs was sent out on a mission in the spring, 
and perished mysteriously on his way to the States. It was 
whispered about that he did not obey counsel, but a clearer 
explanation of his disappearance was afforded when it came 
to light that his young and beautiful wife was sealed to one 
high in authority as soon as he was out of the Territory. 

It was plain that a wife had no more assurance of safety 
than any one else, if she was coveted by one of the rulers 
of the people, and Esther Wallace, in the prime of her 
glorious beauty, might well have trembled for herself. 

As they walked homeward together hand in hand, the 
mother and daughter formed as perfect a picture as any 
ever painted. Winnie’s childish loveliness, her flowing, 
brown curls, violet eyes and dimpled cheek and chin never 
appeared so bewitching as when contrasted with the graver 
beauty of her mother’s face. Both were too fair to look 
upon for their own safety. Well may Esther pray that He 
who walked beside his children in the fiery furnace would 
walk with them to-day. While perils of which she was 
conscious, lay before them perils of which she knew nothing 
were thickening around them. Women as pure, children as 
innocent, were being sacrificed day after day to the Moloch 
set up in these valleys. A man cruel as death, remorseless 
as the grave, reigned over the people and in his hands they 
were as he himself declared, as clay in the hands of the pot- 


192 


In the Toils. 


ter. Families were broken up, homes made desolate, hus- 
bands robbed of their wives and parents of their children, 
to furnish victims for the unclean altar he had reared. 

Will Esther and her child escape, or will they share the 
fate of those around them? We shall see. 

When Mrs. Wallace and Winnie reached home, they 
found the unwelcome guest still there, though they had 
turned aside and taken a long walk to avoid meeting 
him. 

He greeted Esther with the assured manner of an old 
acquaintance, and congratulated her on her safe arrival 
in Zion. 

He was as bland, as courteous and smooth-spoken as 
ever, but his assumption of familiar and friendly relations 
with the whole family augured ill, for it showed that he 
dared to be familiar while knowing that to all, except the 
head of the house, his visits were most unwelcome 
Esther, in spite of her dread and detestation of him, felt 
compelled to receive him with civility as her husband's 
guest, and forced herself, though with difficulty, to go 
through the forms of courtesy in returning his salutation 
and answering his questions. She might not have suc- 
ceeded so well in the attempt, if she had not caught an 
appealing look from her husband ; — a look that said plainly, 
“ I am in his power, for my sake do not offend him." 

After a few common-place remarks, Harwood said : 

“This meeting with old friends gives me the greatest 
pleasure, but I regret to tell you that I have come to the 
Territory as the bearer of evil tidings. It is no secret of 
course that the people of the world, and more especially the 
American people, are unfriendly to us. It is now as it was 
in the beginning, — ‘ I have chosen you out of the world 
therefore the world hateth you.' We have done nothing to 
deserve the ill will shown us ; on the contrary, we have 


In the Toils. 


m 


bome our injuries in silence, and when they hav% perse* 
cuted us in one city we have fled to another. We hoped, 
when we were driven from our home in Illinois, that we 
would have rest for a season. 

To find this rest we penetrated into the heart of the 
desert, and made ourselves homes where none had courage 
to go before us. We thought that in this savage wilderness 
there would be nothing to tempt the cupidity of our enemies, 
and that they would hesitate to follow us so far to gratify 
their malice, but it seems we have made a mistake and at 
this very hour troops sent by the authorities at Washington 
are on their way, to destroy our homes and drive us again 
into the desert, or if we resist, to shed our blood on the 
soil which we have redeemed from desolation and made to 
blossom as the rose.” 

** I hope you may be misinformed,” Wallace ventured to 
observe. “ It seems hardly creditible that the Government 
should invade a peaceful Territory with troops without any 
pretext whatever.” 

‘‘ Oh ! a pretext is not wanting, it never is, when the 
children of this world wish to harass the children of light. 
Eighteen centuries ago a blameless man was hounded to 
death with the cry ‘ We found this fellow perverting the 
nation, and forbidding to give tribute to Caesar,* and to-day 
this people are accused of treason, and why.? Because for- 
sooth President Young has said what preachers all over the 
United States say every Sabbath in the year, without let 
or hindrance ; — that the laws of God are above the laws of 
man and should be obeyed in preference to them.** 

“ And troops are to be sent here to chastise us for 
this ? ** 

“ Yes the thing was planned secretly, and I only learned of 
it the last moment. I have traveled night and day to give 
President Young timely warning. ” 


194 


In the Toils. 


“ And what does he propose to do about it ? ** 

*‘We don*t know as yet. If I were asked for counsel, I 
should say : ‘Don’t be driven any farther. Stand here and 
die if needs be, like men, but don’t fly like frigthened sheep.' 
That would be the counsel of flesh and blood at any rate, 
but our president waits for Divine direction, and if it is 
revealed to him that we should not resist this most un- 
righteous invasion, then there will be nothing left us but 
flight; but mark my words ! If we are compelled to leave 
this city, we will make a Moscow of it. Before the homes 
that we have reared shall again become the prey of our 
enemies, we will burn every building and destroy every 
green thing, and leave behind us only the desert that we 
found at the first. " 

Wallace at these words glanced involuntarily through the 
open window towards the new house, now nearly finished. 
Harwood, observing the looks said ; 

“ It seems hard to you, no doubt, Brother Wallace, to 
think of putting the torch to that house that you have just 
built at such a great cost, but those who would share the 
final triumph of the Saints must share their present sacrifices. 
I am very sorry however that you must lose so much, and 
if you will allow me to say so, I think it was a little unwise 
to put so much money into a building. " 

“Perhaps it was, but I thought as you did that the Saints 
had found a resting place at last. None of us are above 
the possibility of making mistakes yet it seems. ” 

There was the slightest possible touch of sarcasm in 
Wallace's voice, but the Elder did not appear to preceive it. 

“ Well never mind," he answered, “ we who forsake what 
we have here, shall receive a thousand fold in the world to 
come, whether it be houses or lands, husbands or wives 
sons or daughters, — and now good night and good bye for 
I have urgent business which I have been near forgetting 


In the Toils. 


195 


in the pleasure of meeting you all again, I may not see you 
again until the day of battle or flight, whichever the Lord 
orders, and meantime I shall be in places of danger, so 
pray jbr me. 

He held out a hand to each in turn ; — a hand taken most 
unwillingly by two of them at least, — smoothed Winnie’s 
bright curls again as he passed out, saying, “ the Lord bless 
the child, " and was gone. 

Wallace drew a long breath of relief as the gate closed 
behind him. 

From some cause, it was evident that he did not now 
regard Brother Harwood just as he had done when he re- 
ceived him as a messenger from heaven, but he was none 
the less in his power. 

Esther would have given much to learn what had passed 
between them before she came home, but she knew it was 
idle to expect any confldences from her husband on that 
subject. Neither did she expect he would tell her in what 
light he viewed the coming of the troops, but she thought 
nevertheless that she detected a glean of hope in his eye 
when Harwood first spoke. 

It might be that he too was revolving in his mind the 
possibility of escape ; — but no, — his faith in Mormonism was 
too deeply rooted to be destroyed at once. She must wait, 
for years it might be, for such a consummation. 

Then after all, supposing that Harwood told the truth and 
that United States troops were really on their way to the 
Territory, would any of the disaffected be able to profit by 
their coming? The talk about making a Moscow of the city 
was most likely mere bluster, but it would be quite con- 
sistent with the usual practice of the Mormon leaders to 
send the women and children away, before the troops ar- 
rived, together with such of the brethren as they could not 
rely on fully. 


96 


In the Toils. 


Yet in spite of all this, the mere fact that the government 
thought it worth while to investigate, and if need be punish 
the conduct of the Mormon leaders, was a hopeful sign for 
Esther and her fellow captors. If federal troops were sent to 
Utah, they surely would not return without making some 
effort to accomplish the object for which they came, and 
through them the authorities at Washington could not fail to 
learn of the crimes of the Mormon priesthood, and the 
wretched state of their victims. 

If the truth could but be known, they could have help at 
once ; — so thought many who held to the simple faith that 
governments are instituted among men to protect the rights 
of the governed and punish wrong-doers. How great 
the mistake they made, the history of after years will tell. 

The rumor that the troops were coming spread rapidly, 
and among the few who dared trust each other with their 
hopes of escape, there were secret and hurried conferences 
as to what it was best to do, or rather what was practicable. 
The first idea that presented itself, and the only one that 
finally appeared tenable, was to let their situation be 
known to the officer in command before he reached the 
territory. 

But who would be the bearer of the message. The risk 
was great, but a volunteer was found in the person of 
a young man named Harris, who, though brought up 
in the Mormon Church, hated the Priesthood with a per- 
fect hatred ; and he had cause. While yet a boy he had 
seen his aged mother turned out of doors to beg or starve 
because she resisted the introduction of a plural wife into the 
household, and his sister sold into polygamy by her father 
and sealed to a wretch whose brutal treatment caused her 
death. Later, his betrothed wife was taken from him and 
given to an elder in the church and his own life threatened 
because he dared to remonstrate. 


In thk Toils. 


197 


He had nothing to live for, he said, and there was no one 
left to mourn for him if he perished. Besides, he knew 
every foot of the country, every stream and canyon, and 
could succeed in the venture if success were possible to any 
one. 

He would carry only a verbal message. If overtaken and 
searched no scrap of writing would be found to com- 
promse anyone else. He had learned caution in a bitter 
school, and all of them felt that he could be trusted when 
the time should come to make the attempt, but as yet noth- 
ing definite was known of the whereabouts of the troops, or 
when they might be expected to reach the Territory. 

The Mormon leaders were without doubt fully informed, 
but in private conversation and in their public addresses as 
they told the people whatever happened to suit their own 
purpose best, so that there was no hope of learning the 
facts through them. 

Meantime, those who cherished a hope that deliverance 
was coming could only communicate with each other under 
the greatest difficulties. If half a dozen of them had met at 
one place, upon any pretext, suspicion would have been at 
once aroused, and the spies of the church would have been 
kept so constantly on their track that there could be no 
move made by them, which would not be reported at once 
at headquarters. As might be expected, those who laid 
plans for escaping from the tyranny of the Priesthood were 
mostly women, but there were a number of men, some of 
whom had been driven to desperation by the wrongs inflicted 
upon them, while others, who had embraced Mormonism in 
good faith and from pure motives, had renounced the im- 
posture in their hearts as soon as their eyes were opened by 
their experiences in Zion. 

In the latter class, honest, impetuous Brother Daniels 


198 


In the Toils. 


might have been included, but the weeks were lengthening 
into months, and still there were no tidings from him. 

His wife had risen from her sick bed, the shadow of her 
former self. Whether she knew the worst concerning his 
fate, or whether she only feared it, none could tell. To the 
few who ventured to question her about his absence she 
gave no answer except that she had not heard from him. 

What mortal terror sealed her lips, could only be guessed 
by those who pitied her grief, but were powerless as she her- 
self was to cope with the tyranny that held them all in its 
iron grasp. 

“ Dead men tell no tales,” had long been a favorite maxim 
with those in power, and their crimes were most easily hid- 
den by burying witness and victim in the same grave. 

The summer was passing, and rumors of the threatened 
invasion abounded, but nothing more definite was known 
on the subject in August than in June. The Mormon lead- 
ers made it a text for endless tirades against the Govern- 
ment, and there was much loud talking about what “ this 
people ” would do in case the authorities at Washington 
dared to lay a finger on them, but no one seemed to know 
on what the reports they heard were based. 

Meanwhile, another rumor began to circulate concerning 
the coming of a very large emigrant train bound for Cali- 
fornia. It was said that many persons in this train were 
from Missouri, and had helped to drive the Mormons from 
the State, and hints were thrown out that they meant to make 
trouble for the Saints as they passed through the Territory. 

So much was said to their prejudice before they arrived^ 
that a strong feeling against them prevailed among the peo- 
ple when they finally entered the city, but there was nothing 
in their conduct during the few days they remained to 
justify the reports that had been so industriously circulated. 
Nearly all the men in the train had families with them, and 


In the Toils. 


199 


everything in their appearance and manners indicated that 
they belonged to the better class of society. Some of those 
who had been looking forward to the coming of United 
States troops as affording a possible opportunity of escape 
from the Territory, visited the camp of the emigrants in the 
hope of hearing favorable news, or of inducing the leaders 
of the company to aid them in some way. 

Among these was Mrs. Wallace, whose situation was every 
day becoming more intolerable. Her husband, while in a 
measure convinced that he had been grossly deceived by 
Elder Harwood, was nevertheless unwilling to give up his 
faith in what those around him designated “ the principles 
of Mormonism.” Just what this expression meant, he perhaps 
could not have defined any more clearly than his brethren, 
but like them, when confronted with damaging facts in the 
history of Mormonism, he took refuge in the assertion that 
its principles were true. 

Esther could not make up her mind how much he doubted^ 
or how much he still believed, but she saw plainly that he 
was more than ever in the power of the Priesthood, and 
that he lived in continual fear of incurring the displeasure 
of the Church — a myth behind which could be found only the 
one man who held the keys of power. 

She was at a loss to account for the feeling, sometimes 
amounting to abject terror, which seemed to govern him of 
late. In his present state of mind, he doubtless regarded 
himself as being in some sense an accomplice in the murder 
of the poor little Jewess, and the fearful oaths he had taken 
in the Endowment House fettered him, but it seemed as 
though there must have been some still stronger influence 
brought to bear upon him to bring his naturally strong and 
courageous spirit into such a state of absolute subjection. 

And if he felt his chains, it was equally evident that his 
roasters felt thejr power, and tQok pleasure in exercising it. 


200 


In the Toils. 


Their new house in which Esther had promised herself 
as much comfort as it was possible to take in such a country^ 
appeared to belong less to them than to the Mormon lead- 
ers, who came and went in the most unceremonious manner 
invited themselves to dinner or supper with a freedom that 
would have astonished her, if she could have been astonished 
at anything, and tajked to her husband and herself in a way 
that would have warranted their being ordered out of doors 
in any civilized community. 

Wallace writhed under these inflictions ; of that his wife 
was certain, but he dared not give the slightest sign of what 
he felt. Esther planned her visit to the emigrants’ camp 
without consulting him, and went without his knowledge, 
for she wanted him to be able to give his inquisitors a truth- 
ful answer to that effect, when they should call him to 
account, as she knew they would. 

When she reached the camp, she was agreeably surprised 
to find a class of persons as different from the rude pioneers 
she had expected to meet as from the bandit horde the Mor- 
mon leaders had warned the people against. The emigrants 
were men of wealth, judging from their equipments, and 
their wives were refined and Christian ladies. 

There were a large number of children in the camp of all 
ages, from the babe in arms to boys and girls in their teens. 
Among the latter, Esther noticed particularly a beautiful 
dark-eyed girl of twelve or thirteen, whose face called up a 
memory of some one who had been connected with her past 
life, though she could not tell when or where. 

The longer she studied the face, the more the likeness 
impressed her, until finally she called the young girl to her 
and asked her name. 

“ Esther Cleveland,” was the answer. 

“ Esther ! Why that is my name,” Mrs. Wallace said 
“ Do you know for whom you were named? ** 


In the Toils. 


201 


“For mamma’s cousin who lives at the North. I have 
never seen her, but mamma used to love her dearly when 
she was a little girl, and wanted me called after her.” A 
light broke upon Esther’s mind at those words, and with it a 
hope that made her heart beat fast. The girl’s face was the 
face of her cousin, Margaret Pryor, as she last saw it nearly 
twenty years ago. 

Margaret was the daughter of the Robert Pryor mentioned 
in the former part of this narrative, and at the death of her 
own mother she was consigned to the care of Esther’s 
parents, and remained with them a number of years. To 
the little Esther, she had been an elder sister, her protector 
always, and the confidant of her childish troubles. If 
Margaret were here, she would dare to tell her the whole 
painful truth, and let her know why she must leave her 
husband and fly from the home that was no longer a place 
of peace or safety. 

Margaret would help her, if any one could, and with 
something of the same feeling of reliance with which she 
used to go to her in childhood, she sought her now. 

Her cousin’s unbounded astonishment at finding the 
beautiful and gifted Esther Pryor, the little “ Queen Esther” 
of her chidhood, among the Mormons, soon gave way to 
indignant pity as she listened to her story. 

“ You shall not spend another night under that roof or 
within the reach of those wretches,” were her first words 
when Esther finished her recital. “ I will go with you at 
once and bring your child and good old Aunt Eunice to the 
camp.” 

“ No, no," Esther interposed hastily, “that would defeat 
all my plans of escape, and involve not only you but this 
whole company, in the greatest danger. You don’t know the 
people we have to deal with. My only hope is to get away 
from the city before you start, and join you beyond the 


202 


In the Toils. 


limits of the Territory. We have an acquaintance living on 
a farm fifty miles away, with whose family we have 
exchanged one or two visits. Mr. Wallace has already pro- 
posed that Winnie and I should spend a part of August 
there, as he thinks we are both suffering from the effects of 
the hot weather. He does not expect to go with us, but I am 
to take Aunt Eunice and a boy who works for us. This boy 
I have taken care of through a severe illness — saved his life, 
he says, and I can depend on his attachment and fidelity. 
Now hear what I propose to do. 

“I have money put away for just such an emergency, and 
it will not be difficult to conceal provisions enough in the 
carriage to last us a couple of weeks. To-night I will tell 
Mr. Wallace I have decided to take Winnie out to Henly's, 
and think we had best start to-morrow. Early in the even- 
ing I will send Aunt Eunice out to make some purchases 
and she must manage to see you. You can find out before 
that time just what route your party intends to take, and 
then I can make arrangements for joining you. My hus- 
band will not expect me home in two or three weeks, and 
will not be surprised if he does not hear from me in that 
time, as I could have no opportunity of sending him a letter 
except by some of the farmers, who are likely to be too busy 
this month to go to town. 

“I know where to find a guide who will meet me at a safe 
distance from the city, and conduct me to you by a route 
that will expose us to the fewest chances of capture.** 

“ You don’t mean to say that after all the precautions you 
are going to take, there will yet be a chance for the Mor- 
mons to capture you and bring you back?** 

Esther smiled faintly: 

“ I have lived among the Mormons less than a year, but 
that is long enough for me to find out that the chances are 
almost all against me. I am willing however to run all 


In the Toils. 


«03 


risks, while there remains a possibility of making good my 
escape. If I had only myself to think of I should remain 
with my husband and endure whatever might befall me, but 
I have no right to neglect an opportunity of getting Winnie 
away from here.” 

“ I should think not! And I’ll tell you what it is Esther, 
I believe, as I said at first, you had better come right to us, 
and go with us openly. We are a strong party ; — all the 
men are well armed, and I know if we are followed and 
attacked we can fight our way out of the Territory, for these 
miserable Mormons are just as cowardly as they are wicked.” 

Esther again shook her head sadly: 

“ It would be madness to attempt any such thing,” she 
said, “ The Mormons are far stronger than you think, and 
not lacking in courage ; at least not here on their own soil. 
The very children are trained to the use of fire-arms, and 
mere boys of twelve and fourteen mount their horses and 
take their guns to accompany older persons on expeditions 
full of difficulty and danger. I hope most earnestly that 
nothing will happen to involve you in trouble with the 
people of the Territory, for they are none too well disposed 
toward you now.” 

“ Still somehow, I can’t feel afraid of them. They don’t 
look so very formidable, and I think I could trust my hus- 
band alone to defend me against a score of them.” 

Alas! If the beautiful woman who spoke so proudly and 
confidently of the one in whose strong right arm she trusted 
could have looked into the future, she would have prayed 
to fall into any other hands rather than those of this people 
of whom she ‘could not feel afraid;’ — but no foreshadow- 
ing of the doom awaiting her loved ones, no presentiment 
of her own dreadful fate, oppressed her, and when she took 
leave of her cousin for the night, it was with the anticipa- 


204 


In the Toils. 


tion of carrying her and her child away without difficulty 
from the place that was so hateful to her. 

Soon after sunset Esther, after giving Aunt Eunice all 
necessary instructions dispatched her to the camp of the emi- 
grants according to agreement. In about an hour she 
returned, overflowing with wrath. 

“ I'se done tried my best Miss Esther,” she said, “ but 
dem ar good-fer-nothin’ perlice is a watchin* ebery street 
an’ corner. Fust I took de straight road to de camp an’ 
wor walkin' along peaceable like, when one o* dose yer 
critters wheels round in front o’ me an’ says, * you can’t go 
there.* ’* 

“ ‘ Go whar? ’ says I. 

“ ‘ Why to the camp.* 

“ * I’se boun* to go jess dar,* says I, * cause one o* dem 
ladies sold me a shawl, an’ I’se gwine to fotch it,’ 

“ I hope de Lord won’t count notin’ agin me fur tellin* 
sech a lie, ’cause I could.’nt think o’ nothin’ else. 

“ ‘You go long,’ he says, ‘ I’ll see about the shawl.* 

“ Well den, I goes back an’ comes up another street, but 
it war’nt no sort o’ use, Dey stopped me agen an’ when I 
begins to tell about de shawl I’d paid fur, one of ’em 
says : — ‘ I know her, its that Wallace’s nigger, and I know 
she’s a lying,’ and den he lifted his club an’ says, ‘ You 
start yourself home — mighty quick too.* 

“ Sech a triflin’ low-lived critter, to talk about Wallace’s 
niggar ! Let me ketch him roun* dis place, an’ ef I don’t 
heave a pot o’ bilin’ water on him, it ’ll be ’cause he makes 
hisself skeerse mighty suddent.” 

Aunt Eunice puased for breath here and wiped the per- 
spiration from her streaming face. Her mistress had not 
heard her last words. After the first throb of fear lest her 
plans were known, she remembered having heard that the 
police guarded the camp of the strangers at night. She 


In the Toils. 


205 


wondered that she had not thought of this before. In the 
morning, she would send Aunt Eunice again. She could 
contrive some plausible errand, and as people were coming 
and going at all hours during the day, it was not likely she 
would be stopped. She had spoken to her husband about 
going to Henly’s, and he approved the plan but said she 
must wait another day as he would be obliged to use the 
horses in the morning himself. 

This gave her a little more time for preparation and a 
single day could not make mnch difference in the carrying 
out of her project. 

It may be thought that these last hours she expected to 
spend under the same roof with her husband, would be 
filled with the bitter anguish that must attend the sundering of 
the tie that bound their lives together. She had feared her- 
self that when the day of trial came, the pain of the final 
parting would be more than she could bear, but to her own 
surprise she felt a greater calmness of spirit than she had 
known for months. 

The severest struggle had been when she first resolved to 
attempt an escape. Now her mind was made up, the cost 
fully counted and nothing could turn her back. 

She slept as quietly that night as captives have been said 
to sleep the night before mounting the scaffold, and awoke 
the next morning as strong in her purpose as ever. Her 
husband ordered the horses and drove away after an early 
breakfast, and as soon as he was out of sight Aunt Eunice 
started the second time for the camp, and Esther set about 
such preparations as she had to make for her journey. 


PART II. — Chapter iv. 

DISAPPOINTMENT — JEM ” AND HIS DISCOVERIES — BAFFLED 

ESCAPE — THE NAUVOO LEGION CALLED INTO SERVICE — 

DOMESTIC FELICITY IN A SAINT’s HOUSEHOLD. 

Busy, and absorbed in painful thought, it seemed to her 
that scarcely twenty minutes had elapsed when she heard 
the gale open and shut, and directly afterwards Aunt Eunice 
whom she was not expecting for an hour at least, came into 
the room and closed the door carefully behind her. 

“ Dey’s gone Miss Esther ” she said in a cautious whis- 
per. 

“Gone? Who? Where? 

'Sh, honey. Mebbe dat Harwood's a listenin’ for I *clar 
for’t I blebe he's de debbil. 

“ Nobody stopped me dis mornin' an' I hurried straight 
along to de Square, but when I gits dar, what does yer 
spose I see ? Why nuffin'. Kot a tent, not a waggin' not a 
livin' soul. Feared like de yarth had opened an* swallered 
up de hull camp. I was so dumbfoundered dat you might 
a knocked me down with a feather, an I stood dar* a starin' 
five minutes, mebbe more, when I felt suthin tech me on de 
shoulder. I turned roun* an dar stood dat Harwood, a 
grinnin’ an a showin his white teeth. ‘Too late Auntie’ 
he says, un den he tole me to take his compUmens to my miss- 
es an* say dat de train started with de fust streak o' light this 
mornin*. He wor sorry, he said for his fren's to be disap- 
pointed, but sech things would happen. 1 wor so tuk back 


In the Toils. 


*07 


I never answered a word an* he turned an’ walked away. ” 

Esther listened to all this ‘dumbfounded’ as Aunt Eunice 
declared herself to be. What did it mean ? What could it 
mean ? 

One thing at least seemed certain. Her plans were 
known to Harwood, though how he became possessed of such 
knowledge was a mystery, but what had become of the 
emigrants? 

The day before they had no thought of going so soon, 
that she knew, and if anything had occurred to make it 
necessary for them to leave in haste, why did not her cousin 
Margaret send her word? To these perplexing questions 
no reply presented itself, but to the question, what is to be 
done now, her courage and resolution supplied an answer. 

She would spend the day in effort to learn the probable 
route of the emigrants and if successful would still try to 
carry out her plan of joining them. 

Jem, the boy who was to drive the horses for her, was at 
work in the garden. She had other employment for Jiim 
today, and called him into the house to give him his instruc- 
tions. As he will figure in our story to a considerable ex- 
tend in future, he deserves more than a passing notice here. 

Jem was a waif, without parents or kindred that he knew 
of. He said he “ ’sposed he must a’ had a father or mother or 
something o’ that sort but never hearn tell about ’em.’* 

His first recollections were of the poor house where he 
was kicked and cuffed and starved so regularly and sys- 
temaically, that in his own words he “got used ter it all and 
never ’spected nothin’ else.” 

His next home was with a hard-fisted old Pennsylvania 
farmer, to whom he was bound out. Here he was beaten 
oftener, but not so badly starved, and he took the same 
philosophical view of his circumstances as before. A 
couple of years after he came into the family his master 


2o8 


In the Toils. 


was converted to Mormonism and emigrated to Utah, taking 
Jem along. Like other' good Saints, the farmer so’on 
espoused a second wife and Jem was assigned to this lady s 
service; and now for the first time he began to take less 
cheerful views of life. 

His mistress was a vixen whose tongue and temper soon 
made her spouse repent his hasty bargain. He kept 
away from her as much as posible, and having no one but 
Jem on whom to pour on her wrath, a double portion of 
abuse fell to his share. 

His work began before daylight and did not end until lon^ 
after dark. He was fed on scraps that a decent dog would 
have refused, and there were many days that he was whipped 
oftener than he was fed. Jem’s constitution was pretty well 
hardened by exposure and rough usage, but a frame of iron 
could not long endure such treatment as he was receiving. 
Mrs. Wallace often passed him in her daily walks, and the 
ragged, emaciated figure and wan face so stirred her sym- 
pathies that she inquired into his case, and persuaded her 
husband to buy his time of his master. 

Jem’s good days were dawning, but for a while it seemed 
that they had come too late. He was sick for weeks after 
he was removed to his new master’s house, but Mrs. Wallace 
nursed him like a mother and brought him back to health. 
It was the first time the poor boy had ever breathed an 
atmosphere of kindness ; the first time he had been treated 
like a human being, and his gratitude and devotion to his 
benefactress, awkwardly enough expressed, were the first 
signs of the new life to which he was slowly awakening. 

Mrs. Wallace knew she could count on his fidelity under 
any circumstances, and she knew likewise that the keen wit 
hidden under his stolid exterior would serve her well in the 
present emergency. 


In the Toils. 


209 

But we have left Jem a long while standing, cap in hand, 
in the doorway. 

“ Come in Jem, said his mistress, “ and shut the door. ” 

The lad obeyed and waited silently for further orders. 

“Jem, have you been to the emigrants’ camp on the 
square this week? " 

“ Yes ’m. “ 

“ Were you there last night ? ** 

“No ma’am. I was goin’ down jist dark, but th* p’leece 
stopped me. “ 

“ Did you go near enough to see that the camp was there 
yet ? ” . 

“ Yes ’m, but you know the Square is fenced on three 
sides. On the open side it looked as if they was takin’ down 
tents and loadin’ up wagons, but I didn’t have a chance to 
see much, for the p’leece was sharp on the boys and druv 
us all back. ” 

“Well Jem, the emigrants went away this morning, — and 
now listen to me. I want you to go on the street and 
find out if you can, why they left so soon and what road 
they have taken. Don’t ask any questions, but try and 
hear what people are saying. You can do that without 
seeming to listen. ” 

“ All right Mrs. Wallace. I’ll do my best. ” 

“ I know you will. Go now, and come back as soon as 
you have any news for me. ’’ 

Jem slipped out of the room as noiselessly as he had 
entered. 

Outside the door, he stopped to take down a bag of mar- 
bles from a nail, and with these in his hand he sauntered 
idly along the sidewalk, until he came to the principal 
street. 

The police, most of whom he knew by sight, though they 
wore no uniform, stood in little knots at the corners, and a 


210 


Ik THi Toixa 


few men were gathered about the shops and stores. There 
was little stir on the street — indeed a sleepy quiet prevailed 
there most of the time except on market days. 

“ Hillo/* said Jem, slapping the first boy he met on the 
shoulder, “got any marbles.^ I Ve got three dozen in this 'ere 
bag and I’ll bet you what you dare that I kin win yours if 
you want to play.” 

“ I ’haint no marbles,” answered the other a little sulkily, 
“Dad never buys me nothin*. I wanted to go a fishin’ this 
mornin'but he would ’nt git me any hooks.” 

“ Well, 1*11 lend you a dozen marbles to begin with and 
we’ll see who’ll beat.” 

The boys knelt on the sidewalk and were presently to 
all appearance absorbed in their game, but Jem kept his 
ears open, though his eyes were fixed on the marbles. He 
had selected a spot within three feet of a group of police- 
men, and not a single word spoken by them escaped 
him. 

“ You see Brother Burt,” said one in a low, cautious tone, 
“ they found out they had to obey orders. Some of the 
men did a little tall talking but it was no use. We per- 
xuaded them without much trouble, when they made sure 
that we would send twenty men to their one to start them 
if they did’nt march of their own accord.’* 

“ Yes, I guess they’ve changed their minds by this time 
about the poor Mormon devils. Should’nt wonder if they 
see some more changes between this and St. George.** 

At this moment the man addressed as Burt turned his 
'lead, and observed the proximity of the two boys. 

“ Get out of this you young whelps” he said raising his 
club threateningly. “ What do you mean by blpcking up 
the sidewalk. Clear, I say,” at the same time giving the 
marbles a kick. 


In the Toils. 


an 


“ There uo whiMpered Jem, “my chiny alley is lost in 
the ditch/"* 

* l*il throw yov\ ia alter it if you don*t strike for home in 
douvdo quick. And you too/* to the other boy ‘‘if you hang 
around here.” 

The boy started on a run without waiting for a second 
bidding, while Jem, hastily cramming his remaining marbles 
into the bag, disappeared around opposite the corner. 

On the next block, a woman was leaning over the fence, 
talking earnestly with another who was at work in the 
garden. Jem walked that way, throwing up and catching 
his bag of marbles as he went, apparently oblivious of every- 
thing else. At the fence corner, he dropped down on the 
bank of the ditch and began to build a dam across it. 

Jem’s ears were sharp but at first, he could distinguish 
nothing of the conversation between the two women, and 
finding they paid no attention to him he moved nearer. 

“ I don’t care,” The one outside the fence was saying, 
“I don’t believe the stories about them. We live as near 
the Square as anybody and they never disturbed us.” 

“ Well, there must have been something wrong,” the other 
answered, or they would’nt have been ordered away. It 
seemed though, like it would have been a good thing for 
them to stay awhile. We all needed the money they was 
LO free to spend.” 

“ Yes; but have ’nt you heard that it s forbid now to trade 
with them.? Brother Smith has gone South ahead of the 
train, to warn all the people in the settlements not to have 
any deal with the emigrants.” 

“ That does seem a little hard, but it don’t become us to 
question what’s done by them that’s set over us. I’ve seen 
before now what comes of disobeying counsel, and I’m glad 
I did’nt sell them chickens they wanted last night ; though 


213 


In the Toils. 


to be sure they offered a big price, and my children *aint 
got a shoe to their feet for the winter.” 

“You’re a fool then. Counsel or no counsel, I would’nt 
let my children go barefoot in the snow.” 

“ ’Sh. I’m afraid Mariar, that you’ll git into trouble some 
day by talking so free. Nobody knows who might be 
listening.” 

“ Mariar” seemingly heeded the caution, for her reply 
was inaudible to the listener on the bank, and concluding he 
had heard all he would be likely to hear, Jem slipped out of 
sight and took a roundabout way home. 

He made a faithful report to his mistress, and Esther 
gathered from it a tolerably clear idea of what must have 
taken place. The emigrants, driven out of the City in 
haste, and prevented from communicating with anyone, had 
taken the direct route through to Los Angeles in Southern 
California. This was not their original purpose, but doubt- 
less the same power that compelled them to break up their 
camp a week sooner than they intended, had likewise 
forced them to change their route, and if they were pre- 
ceded by carriers to warn the people against them, they 
were of course followed by spies who would report whether 
the orders given were obeyed or not. 

The difficuties in the way of joining them unperceived 
were increased tenfold, but she could not bring herself to 
abandon her plan altogether. 

Mechanically she continued her preparations for flight, 
and long before nightfall they ’ were finished. She won- 
dered at herself — at the strange calmness that possessed, her 
in view of parting from her husband, and encountering 
dangers that might appall the stoutest heart. 

Sometimes it seemed as though she must be living in a 
dream, and she half expected to wake up and find herself 
in her old home. The feeling, of which all of us have been 


In th^ Toils. 


213 


conscious at some period in our lives, that her suroundings 
and even her own acts were unreal, was strong upon her 
during all the hours of that day and night. 

Wallace returned about dark, looking unusually worn and 
dispirited. He was moody and silent, answered his wife’s 
questions in monosyllables, and when Winnie ventured to 
climb on his knee, repulsed her so roughly that the sensitive 
child burst into tears. 

He was up before daylight the next morning, hurrying 
the preparations for their journey. 

“ They will give you good quarters at Henly’s,” he said ; 
“ and I shall probably be out of town much of the time on 
business, so don’t be in haste to get back.” 

He took leave of his wife and child kindly, but there was 
a strange, though suppressed eagerness to get them away, 
that Esther could not help perceiving, and that she under- 
stood only too well afterwards. 

The sun was just coming in sight above the mountains — 
when they started, and she ordered Jem to drive fast while 
it was cool. She hoped to reach a cross road about ten 
miles out of town, before many of the people along the way 
were stirring. This road led south through a section of 
countrjr, so little traveled and so thinly settled, that she 
thought it WOUI4 be possible to make a day’s journey in 
that direction without interruption. 

But before half the distance to the crossing was accom- 
plished, they heard the clatter of hoofs behind them, and 
turning their heads they saw a horseman enveloped in a 
cloud of dust, riding rapidly toward them. 

“ Its dat Harwood,” exclaimed Aunt Eunice as the dust 
cleared a little. 

Esther’s heart almost stood still for a moment. It was 
indeed Harwood, and for whatever he was following them it 
certainly was for no good. He overtook them in a few 


214 


In the ^oils. 


minutes, and reining his panting horse close beside the car- 
riage, lifted his hat to' its occupants. 

“ My dear Mrs. Wallace,’* he said in the bland tone that 
she had learned to detest so heartily, “ how fortunate that I 
happened to have a little business out at Henly’s to-day. It 
would be quite unsafe for you to make the journey alone; 
and if Brother Wallace had lived in this country as long as 
I have, he would not think of allowing you to do so. I 
called at your house just after you started, and learning 
from him that you had taken no one with you, I rode on as 
fast as possible to offer my services.” 

To all this Esther vouchsafed not a syllable of reply. 
She saw clearly enough that her plans were known and 
defeated, but by whom ? Had her husband suspected any- 
thing Did he know of her interview with her cousin ? 

She was not likely to find out before her return home and 
perhaps not then. Mrs. Nye was right. They were all 
snared in a net whose meshes could not be broken. Was 
escape impossible ? It seemed so, since like the bird in the 
snare of the fowler, all her efforts only served to tighen the 
cords that bound her. 

As she remain determinedly silent, Harwood, after a few 
ineffectual attempts to draw Winnie into conversation, fell 
back a little and suffered them to continue their journey 
unmolested. 

Jem drove rapidly until they came in sight of the cross- 
road. His mistress had acquainted him with her plans as 
far as she judged it necessary, but he did not quite under- 
stand what was expected of him under the present aspect 
of affairs. 

“ Drive on to Henly’s Jem.” Mrs. Wallace said in 
answer to his look of inquiry. They passed the crossing 
without slacking the speed of the horses, but neither Esther 
or Aunt Eunice could forbear a look in the direction which 


Im the Toils. 


215 


they had hoped might prove a way of escape. As the car- 
riage sped on, Aunt Eunice clasped her hands and muttered 
half aloud, “ No use. De debbil helps his own/’ but her 
mistress made no sign. 

It was past noon when they reached Henly’s. The occu- 
pants of the carriage were hospitably received by Mrs. 
Henly and her daughters, but Esther detected on their faces 
a look of surprise not unmingled with fear when Harwood 
rode up. 

“ The men are all at work on the west farm,” Mrs. Henly 
said in answer to his inquiry for her husband, “ but you can 
put your horse in the stable or picket him in the pasture just 
as you like.” 

“ Thank you. I will put him in the stable then, and give 
him some grain, for I have a long ride before me yet.” 

“ He is going away then,” thought Esther as she followed 
her hostess into the house, and there was an inexpressible 
sense of relief in the prospect of being rid of his pres- 
ence. 

The Henlys were old residents, that is to say they 
entered the valley with the first settlers, nearly ten years 
before. They owned two good farms, raised abundant 
crops, were rich in cattle and horses and lived much more 
comfortably than most of their neighbors, but alas for the 
peace of the household there was a second wife domiciled 
at the “ West Farm.’* 

Mrs. Henly was a comely matron of fifty. Her daughters, 
red-cheeked, flaxen-haired lasses in their teens, bustled 
about to prepare dinner for the guests, while the mother 
entertained them in the ” square room.” Everything about 
the furniture and arrangement of this room told of the New 
England home in which the good housewife was reared, and 
perhaps it was the same New England training which ren- 


2i6 


In the Toils. 


dered it impossible for her to be “reconciled," as she said 
to the plural establishment on the west farm. 

Dinner was soon on the table, but to Esther’s surprise 
Harwood was not present when they sat down. He asked 
for a slice of bread and a glass of milk, one of the girls 
said, and then hurried away to the other farm to see their 
father. 

“ I wonder what he’s after this time,’’ she added; “No 
good I’ll warrant.” 

The mother made a warning gesture, and the girl 
stopped. 

Esther thought is best to take no notice of the remark. 
Harwood did not seem to be a favorite with the family, but 
it might not be wise to express her own opinion about him, 
or to let it be known that his coming in their company was 
other than accident. 

It was late in the afternoon when Harwood returned. 
He seemed in a great hurry and not very well pleased 
about something, and as soon as his horse could be saddled 
he mounted and rode back in the direction of the city. 

This information Jem communicated through Aunt 
Eunice. Harwood did not come into the house before 
starting. He told the girls he had dinner at the other farm, 
and would need all his time for the ride back to the city. 

“He has not gone there then,” was Esther’s mental com- 
ment. 

If he was really going back to the city, he would not 
have taken trouble to say so. 

Did his movements concern her? Would he watch the 
route she still meant to take, if possible, in order to join 
the emigrants ? She would have given much for an answer 
to these questions, but since she was not likely to obtain it 
from any source, she resolved to lay her plans and attempt 
to carry them out without any reference to Harwood. 


In the Toils. 


217 


“ I will be no worse off if I fail,” she thought “ and I will 
make at least one more effort.” 

Harris was the guide on whom she depended to con- 
duct her through the Territory, by a route which he had 
assured was so little traveled as to be comparatively safe for 
her. He was to wait that day on the cross-road mentioned 
before, and if they did not come he was to return to the city 
after nightfall and remain there until he received further 
orders. 

She must contrive some plausible errand for Jem, and 
send him back to the city in the morning; meantime she 
could do nothing, but wait and endeavor to disarm suspi- 
cion, if any existed in the minds of her entertainers. 

Henly came home to supper, accompanied by one of his 
two sons. 

“ Where’s George, father ? ” asked the oldest girl. 

“ Had to send him to the range after a horse ” the old 
man answered rather shortly : “ One of the horses fell lame 
to-day.” 

At the supper table, Henly tried "to act the part of host 
affably, but he was plainly anxious and ill at ease. Before 
they left the table, Esther, in pursuance of the plan she had 
formed, asked if one of the girls could be spared to help 
them unpack their things. 

“ The girls are busy ” Mrs. Henly answered, “ but I will 
go with you myself and help you.” 

They went up stairs together, and as soon as they were 
alone in the chamber, the hostess surprised her guest by 
softly closing the door and slipping the bolt. 

“Mrs. Wallace,” she said in a hurried and agitated whis- 
per, “ thank God that I have found a chance to speak to 
you to-night, for if you should do what you are thinking of 
doing to morrow, it would cost you all your lives, listen ; 
That Harwood came here for no good, as my Mary said. 


2i8 


' In the Toils. 


He followed you from the city because he knew you were 
trying to get away, and he has given orders to have you 
closely watched here. If you should succeed in getting 
away from this place, it would be only to fall into the hands 
of somQ of his spies and, — dear Mrs. Wallace you don’t 
know this people yet. It would be too good a chance of 
putting you out of the way for them to miss, and as for your 
little girl, Harwood says she has property and is worth sav- 
ing. I almost wonder that he did’nt let you go right on 
to-day and fall into some of the traps he had set for you ; 
but nobody can tell just what his plans are. 

“ Lord have mercy on us ! Clasping her hands with 
a sudden despairing gesture, “ when such devils as he is 
have the power on their side, what can poor weak women 
do}** 

Esther listened to all this with colorless cheeks, clenched 
hands and set teeth. A spirit of fierce defiance possessed 
her for the moment. She would dare the worst that Har 
wood could do. She could but die, and it was a thousand 
times better to die now than to live in the power of such 
wretches. But her child ! For the first time she felt the 
full force of poor Theresa St. Clair’s words, “What refine* 
ments of cruelty can be practiced upon a mother ! ” 

If she made the desperate venture she had proposed, and 
fell into the hands of the church spies,, they would kill her 
and Aunt Eunice, but Winnie, as Harwood said, was “ worth 
saving.” 

No, she must not throw her life away, and leave her child 
helpless and alone in such hands. For the present, all hope 
of escape was cut off, and the future she dared not contem- 
plate. She sank into a chair, overcome by a sudden deadly 
faintness. For the first time, her strength and courage 
seemed deserting her, and Mrs. Henly’s next words sounded 


Ik the Toils. 


219 


like the voice of the Tempter appealing to her in this hour 
of mortal weakness. 

“ It’s no use, Mrs. Wallace, I thought at first that I could 
make a stand for my rights and fight my way through, and 
hundreds of women here have thought the same, but we’ve all 
had to give up. We’re in the power of them, that don’t 
stop at anything ; that would tear the baby from its mother's 
breast and kill it before her eyes, if they could not conquer 
her in any other way, I don’t believe in Mormonism any 
more than you do. I did once, but Iv’e seen too much 
wickedness here to have any faith left. But I don’t let any 
one know what I think, I always talk as though I held to all 
the principles yet, and you will have to do the same; act as 
though you were contented with your lot and be baptized. 

“You must give up trying to fight against what can^t be 
helped for your child’s sake if not for your ovn.*’ 

Esther made no reply to this in words, indeed she was 
too stunned and bewildered to comprehend the half that 
was said, and Mrs. Henly went on. 

“ Harwood ordered my son George to take his horse and 
gun and start south to-day, and his father had to let him go. 
He don’t dare to say a word, though he knows well 
enough the boy is sent on a bad errand. The Nauvoo 
Legion has been called out to follow the emigrant train ; I 
only hope it is for nothing worse than to capture their 
stock.” 

The last words roused Esther and gave a new direction 
to her fears. 

“ Why, what worse errand do you think they might be 
sent on ? ” she asked. 

“They might be ordered not to let any of the company get 
out of the Territory alive, but I don’t think it is as bad as 
that. They say it is a large train, and all the men are well 


920 


In the Toils, 


armed so I hope they may get through with no greater harm 
than losing some of their property.” 

Footsteps were now heard on the stairway and Mrs. 
Henly unbolted the door and began arranging the room for 
the night. 

Winnie came bounding up the stairs and into the room, 
followed by one of the Henly girls, “ IVe been helping milk 
the cows mamma,” she said, ” and IVe had such a splendid 
time. I hope we are going to stay a good while, for I like 
it ever so much better here than in town.'* 

“ We will stay a couple of weeks, if Mrs. Henly does not 
get tired of us,’* was the answer, and the hostess, much 
relieved by the words, added : 

“ You will stay I hope until you get such red cheeks as 
my girls have. We will do our best to take good care of 
you and your mother.” 

Aunt Eunice now came up, and Mrs. Henly wished her 
guests good-night and left them to their rest ; — and here for 
the present we will leave them also and return to Harwood. 

Esther made a mistake in supposing that he spoke of 
returning to the city only to mislead his listeners. 

For once he meant what he said, and about nine o’clock 
in the evening he dismounted from his horse at Wallace’s 
gate. Entering with the manner of one not to be denied 
he walked up so the front door and rapped with his riding 
whip. 

“ Who is there ? ” asked Wallace from within. 

“Open quickly” was the answer, given in imperative 
tones. “ There is no time to lose.” 

Wallace recognized the voice and obeyed, though judging 
from the expression of his face the guest he admitted was far 
from welcome. 

Harwood closed the door behind him, and Wallace 


In the Toils. 


221 


remained standing in the hall-way with the lamp in his 
hand. 

The two men regarded each other a moment in silence, 
Harwood was the first to speak. 

“ You are ready to start I suppose,” he said. 

“ No.” 

“And why not pray ? Orders such as you have received 
are not given to be trifled with as you should know by this 
time.” 

“ I want to be assured first that no harm is intended to 
these people.” 

“ You want to be assured ! It is rather late in the day 
for you to begin to question what is done by those who are 
set over you in the Lord, or to have conscientious scruples 
about obeying their counsel. You should have thought of 
these things sooner.” 

Harwood bent his keen, gray eyes on the man before him^ 
and Wallace quailed under the look. Whatever hidden 
meaning was couched in these last words, he understood 
them well enough, for his head sunk upon his breast and 
every spark of courage died out of his face and mien. 

“ I am in your power” he said in smoother tones. “ Do 
with me what you will.” 

“Now you begin to talk reasonably,” though I must say 
you have a peculiar mode of expressing yourself. I am 
going to change my jaded horse for a fresh one and I will 
be back in half an hour, — time enough for you to get ready; 
and remember, the orders are, to march armed and equipped 
as the law directs.” 

Half an hour later two men on horseback rode rapidly 
down the street leading from Wallace’s house to what was 
known as the State road. Here they halted a few minutes, 
and while they waited two or three small squads of mounted 
men came in sight from different directions and joined them. 


f2S 


In the Toils. 


Harwood gave some orders in an undertone to one of the 
horseman, and then turning to Wallace said : 

“ These brethren are to be your traveling companions. 
They know the route and have all necessary instructions 
with regard to the duty expected of them. I part company 
with you here. I have orders to remain in Salt Lake for 
the present. ** 

So saying, he wheeled his horse and galloped back in the 
direction from which they had come. 

Wallace's new companions took the road, riding two 
abreast. One who seemed to be the leader, directed Wal- 
lace, to fall into the place beside him. After this there were 
few words spoken. The night was dark, the road solitary ; 
no sign of life was visible at the few farmhouses they passed ; 
not even the baying of a watch-dog broke the oppressive 
silence. 

Once during the night, they halted at a cross-road and 
after x few minutes waiting, were joined by about a dozen 
men iiimilarly mounted and armed. 

As (he day began to dawn, the leader ordered them to 
break rank and separate into companies of twos and 
threes They were now approaching a small settlement, 
and some of these detached squads halted here while the 
others rude forward. 

Wallace and the leader were among the latter. Both 
were welt mounted and they were by this time half a mile 
in advance of any of the others. During the night, Wallace 
absorbed ia his own bitter thoughts, had shown as little dis- 
position t® .converse as his taciturn companion, and since 
daylight revealed the hard, determined face of the man 
beside him, he felt still less inclined to exchange a word 
with him. He was apparently about thirty-five years old, 
of medium height, but broad shouldered and very strongly 
built. His dress was the ordinary gray homespun, worn by 


In the Toils. 


223 


most of the settlers, and furnished no indication of either 
the military or ecclesiastical rank of the wearer, though 
from the fact that during the ride he was addressed by 
some of the company as “ Elder” and by others as 
“ Colonel," Wallace concluded that he must be an officer in 
the Nauvoo Legion as well as in the church. 

Thus far he had spoken to no one except to give some 
necessary orders, and now although riding side by side 
with Wallace and apart from the others, he maintained the 
same impenetrable reserve. But the cold eye, the cruel 
mouth with the square, heavy under jaw forming a physiog- 
nomy altogether repelling, told their own story of the 
man’s nature, even if they revealed nothing of his mission. 

About seven o clock they rode up to the door of a com- 
fortable looking farm-house. 

“ We stop here,” said Colonel Ricks, for this was the 
name by which Wallace had heard his companion addressed 
during the night. We will get something to eat for our- 
selves and our horses and lie by most of the day." 

A frowsy headed girl opened the door, and turning her 
back on the strangers called to some one within, “ Brother 
Foote you’re wanted,” and immediately disappeared. 

Some minutes elapsed before Brother Foote answered the 
summons. He had been disturbed at his breakfast, appar- 
ently, for he carried a portion of it in his hand, and as he 
was barefoot, and his toilet in other respects somewhat in- 
complete it was probable he did not expect visitors so 
early. 

"Oh! it is you Brother Ricks,” he said. "I’d got round 
sooner if I’d a knowed. Light right down,” he added 
hospitably. " The boy’s *11 take your horses and the wim- 
men ’ll have your breakfast ready in no time. Come in 
this way you and brother ** 


224 


In the Toils. 


“Wallace” said the Colonel. “He came down with me 
from Salt Lake.” 

“ Yes, yes. We Ve heard of brother Wallace down here. 
Glad to make his acquaintance.^ And Brother Foote, shift- 
ing the slice of bread he held to the other hand, gave 
Wallace a fraternal grasp. 

The room into which they were ushered seemed to serve 
a variety of purposes. A loom with a web of cloth in it, 
nearly filled one end, while a bed still unmade, occupied 
the other, and a cradle with a sleeping baby in it stood in 
a corner. 

“Jest excuse me a minnit. Brother Ricks” said their host 
“while I see to the horses and speak to the wimmin folks 
about breakfast.” 

With this apology. Brother Foote betook himself to the 
kitchen regions, from whence the savory odor of fried 
bacon was wafted through the open door of the room oc- 
cupied by his guests. 

” Say Marthy,” it was the voice of their entertainer 
speaking in persuasive tones, “ Brother Ricks has stopped 
here to breakfast, and that rich Brother Wallace you’ve 
heerd me tell about is with him.” 

‘‘ I wish to goodness your grand company would bring 
their victuals along with them. You need’nt think Fm 
agoing to wait on them.” 

“ For shame Marthy;” interposed a third voice in a weak 
treble, its a duty an* a privilege I consider to offer Brother 
Foote’s company the best in the house. l*ve jest sot 
the table in my room and I’ve cooked a chicken be- 
cause, — because you know Brother Foote, you said 
yesterday mebbe you’d take breakfast with me this 
mornin’.” 

“ He take breakfast with you indeed! I’d like to see him 


In thb Toils. 


22 $ 

doing it, when it's his week to stay in my part of the 
house.” 

“ Dear me, Marthy ! If you was the Queen of Sheby 
you could’nt put on more airs than you hev sence Brother 
Foote married you; but what was you afore I'd like to 
know ? '' 

“And what was you, Jane Holman.? But I won't waste 
anymore words on you. Brother Foote, you can bring your 
company in to breakfast in about twenty minutes. That 
is all the time I ask to set out a better meal than Jane ever 
thought of.” 

“Well, well, don't let's have any quarreling when these's 
strangers in the house. We’ll take breakfast with you of 
course Marthy, and if they stay maybe they’ll eat dinner 
with Jane.” 

The sudden slamming of a door at this juncture deprived 
the audience in the front room of the remainder of the 
conversation, and a few minutes afterwards their host 
entered smiling and rubbing his hands briskly. 

“ I guess them horses of yourn is cooled off enough to 
have their feed now “he said, I was afraid the boys 
would’nt manage right and I’ve bin out and tended to 'em 
myself.” 


PART II. — Chapter v. 

THE MOUNTAIN MEADOW MASSACRE. 

N^:arly three hundred miles south of Great Salt Lake, and 
not far from the line which divides Utah and Arizona, lies 
what is well named Mountain Meadows, — a valley thousands 
of feet above the level of the sea; a grassy park, walled in 
by the peaks of the Sierras. 

The streams which feed the Colorado and Rio Virgin 
have their source here. Mere rivulets they are, tiny threads 
of silver, almost hidden by the tall rich grass. 

Myriads of wild flowers, wonderfully beautiful in form 
and coloring, dot the surface of the Meadows and bloom 
and die unnoted, — for the solitude is seldom broken by 
human foot-steps. 

To the traveler whom chance may lead thither, the 
mountain valley seems the abode of Silence and Peace; and 
so it seemed to the company of emigrants, who reached it, 
tired and travel worn, after their long march through an 
enemy's country. 

The party whose sudden and mysterious disappearance from 
Salt Lake gave so much anxiety to some who hoped for help 
from them, had traveled as fast as their tired animals could be 
urged to go, through the inhospitable Territory in which 
they found themselves, and early in September arrived at the 
Meadows where they hoped to rest and recruit themselves 
before starting to cross the Desert. 

It seemed to them, as they entered the narrow defile 


In the Toils. 


227 


leading into the park, that they had at length found a haven 
of safety, and they pitched their camp and lay down 
to sleep that night with thankful hearts. The next day 
passed quietly and with no foreboding of danger on 
the part of the emigrants. When night fell again, they 
prepared for rest without taking any precaution save such 
as had been their custom throughout the journey. Two 
men only were left on watch, one at the camp, and one 
where their animals were corralled, a few hundred yards 
away. 

The hours of the night wore on. The stars that rose over 
the valley when they lay down to rest, looked from mid- 
heaven upon the sleeping conipany, — mothers with their 
babes nestled in their arms, children breathing softly in 
unbroken slumber of youth and health, and strong men 
wrapped in oblivion of the day’s fatiguing cares. 

Midnight and all is well ! 

But in the nearest settlements might be heard the stealthy 
tread of armed assassins, and half-suppressed sounds of 
warlike preparations. 

The Nauvoo Legion, obedient to ** orders from head -quar- 
ters,” have surrounded the unsuspecting emigrants, and 
while they sleep, the plot for their destruction is maturing. 

A portion of the Legion painted and disguised as Indians, 
have been sent on in company with savages less cruel than 
themselves to attack the train. The remaining companies 
of the Mormon militia have other orders. 

As the first glimmer of dawn appeared in the sky, the 
guard at the emigrants camp discerned dark forms moving 
on the hill-sides around them. Fearing, he scarce knew 
what, he aroused his comrades. 

“ Indians,” was the word passed from lip to lip, as the 
figures showed more plainly in the growing light. 

Before the sun rose the scattering forms in sights had 


228 


In the Toils. 


increased to scores, and as an attack was plainly intended, 
a barricade was hastily formed with the wagons of the com- 
pany, and manned by husbands and fathers, who knew that 
on the issue of the fight depended the safety of the lives 
dearest to them. 

Their hurried preparations for defence were scarcely con- 
cluded, when the sharp crack of rifles and the whizzing of 
bullets announced that the battle had begun. 

It was already only too plain that their assailants greatly 
outnumbered them, and from savages, as they supposed them 
to be, no quarter was expected. It was a fight against des- 
perate odds, but love stronger than death nerved their arms 
and strengthened their hearts. 

Let the father who reads these pages by his own fireside, 
with the bright heads of his little children clustering round 
him, ask himself against how great odds he could fight, if a 
cruel and lingering death menaced his darlings. 

Let him take his youngest born on his knee and while 
the soft, baby eyes are uplifted to his, let him measure, if he 
can, the anguish of those fathers who turned from a last 
look at just such faces, to meet the fierce onset of their 
murderous foes. 

All day long the unequal battle raged. At nightfall the 
fire ftom the attacking party slackened, but the light from 
piles of burning brushwood showed that they still sur- 
rounded the emigrant's camp on every side. 

Before sunrise, a murderous rain of bullets commenced, 
and again continued till nightfall. 

Access to the springs and streams of water was now cut 
off, and the horrors of death from thirst stared them in the 
face, but they fought with desperate courage, and when the 
sun went down the second day, still held their position, and 
kept the foe at bay. 

The morning of the third day found them worn, exhausted, 


In the Toils. 


229 


tortured by burning thirst, but with hearts as undaunted as 
ever. 

Late in the afternoon, the steady firing of the besiegers 
ceased, and when they looked out to ascertain the cause, 
they saw, oh joy ! a body of white men entering the valley, 
their leader bearing a flag of truce. 

Be it remembered, the emigrants had never doubted that 
those who attacked them were Indians, and the sight of 
white men, coming, as they believed, to their rescue, was 
welcome as a vision of angels. 

Unbounded rejoicing now took the place of despair. 
Mothers, who during all those dreadful days had knelt with 
their babes in their arms and besieged heaven with 
agonized prayers, began to pour out thanksgivings with a 
rain of grateful tears. Strong men, who had kept up the 
desperate fight without wavering for a moment, broke down 
at the prospect of deliverance and wept like children. 

In answer to the flag of truce, a little girl was dressed in 
white and placed on one of the wagons. 

In view of what followed, this act was full of unutterable 
pathos. 

Truly, they, had decked a lamb for sacrifice. 

The white men, as they approached the camp, proved to 
be a detachment of Mormon militia headed by their officers, 
who were likewise the Bishops of the surrounding settle- 
ments. • 

After a brief parley with these officers the beleagured 
emigrants, seeing no other hope of saving their wives, ac- 
cept the terms, which they proposed. These were, that 
they should surrender all their possessions to the “ Indians, ” 
stack their arms, and march out of the valley under the 
protection of the militia. 

After making this surrender, they were divided into three 
companies. The men went first, under the escort of a 


230 


In the Toils. 


detachment of the Nauvoo Legion. The women and chil- 
dren followed at some distance, and a wagon containing the 
wounded brought up the rear. 

And now comes the blackest page in this chapter of 
treachery and murder; a page that the most callous his- 
torian might shrink from recording. 

At a given signal from the officer in command, the un- 
armed men, who were being marched out under guard were 
shot down like dogs, and when the last one lay dead or 
dying on the bloody sod, the slaughter of the women and 
children and the butchery of the wounded began. 

«««««««*« 

The closing atrocities of that day of blood may not be 
written nor told. 

When the sun set that night upon the reddened and 
trampled Meadows, one hundred and twenty corpses 
strewed the ground. The men lay where they fell, in pools 
of stiffening gore. The bodies of the women and children 
were scattered over the hillside, toward which they fled 
in their frantic fear. Away to the north of the camp, 
half hidden by a clump of bushes, lay Margaret Cleveland 
and her daughter, still elapsed in each others arms. A 
merciful bullet, from the gun of the nearest savage, had 
passed through the body of the child and entered the 
mother’s heart, sparing both a more horrible fate. 

As the veil of night and silence fell upon the awful scene, 
the murderers, encamped just outside the valley, gathered 
up the money and jewels taken from their victims and 
delivered them to the officer, in command. Among those 
who come on this business was one \vho asked to speak 
apart with the Colonel. ‘‘ Brother Dame ” he said, “ I wish 
you’d tell me what to do with that white-livered chap that 
was send down from Salt Lake. He fainted away at 
the first smell of blood, and was brought from the Meadows 


In the Toils. 


231 


in my wagon. He’s a layin’ there now, sick with a fever or 
somethin’ worse, it seems like, and ravin’ about * murder’ 
and all that. Sech kid-glove gentry air no manner o’ count 
when there’s rough work on hand. I wonder who was fool 
enough to send him. ” 

“ That’s none of you business, ” was the curt rejoinder, 
“ I will go and see him. Lead on. ” 

It was a walk of nearly a quarter of a mile from the 
“Colonel’s” headquarters to the camp-fire of his subordinate, 
where lying in a covered farm wagon, Charles Wallace 
alternately raved in delirium, or moaned in a stupor that 
was not deep enough to shut out the awful sights which had 
burned themselves in upon his brain. 

“ He talks altogether too much for a sick man. Shouldn’t 
wonder if I was obliged to give him something to make him 
sleep soundly ” said the Colonel grimly. 

Then after a few minutes’ refiection he added : 

“ Stay, I have thought of a plan. There is nobody here 
to be disturbed by his talk to-night, and in the morning you 
can take him to Bill Stewart’s ranch down the river. His 
woman there is Danish and won’t understand a word that 
may be said. I will send Bill down himself some time 
to-morrow, and under his care our fine gentlemen will do 
well enough. How long has he been with you? ” 

“ Since yesterday. I was in the same squad with him 
when we got our orders to go and help the emigrants ? He 
seemed mighty uneasy, and asked a heap of questions about 
the errand we had been sent on. Brother Allen told him 
the Injuns was usin’ up the emigrants, and we was goin’ to 
try and save them. I did’nt say anything, for I wa’ant 
asked to, and besides I make it a pint to let folks do their 
own lyin’. ” 

“You’ve got altogether too free a tongue. Brother Jim 
Mind that it don’t get you into trouble some day.” 


232 


In the Toils. 


Oh as to that I always have a care where I do my , 
talkin’. 

“ Well as I was sayin’, this new recruit, Wallace I believe 
they call him, was uncommon pertickler to know why we 
had been ordered out, and I don’t think he felt just satis- 
fied when them chaps stacked their arms, but he kept his 
place in the ranks till he heard the word ‘ fire,’ and then his 
gun dropped from his hands. Five minutes after, when the 
smoke cleared so’s to show what the shot had done, he 
dropped too, and rolled almost under my feet. 

“I picked him up, (there wa’ant more heft to him than a 
girl), and dragged him out of the way, and after it was all 
over, old man Davis helped carry him to one of the wagons, 

I had’nt any orders to do it, but seein’ he was in Colonel 
Rick’s company and they made somethin’ of him, I sposed 
they’d want him looked after. They put him in my wagon 
after they got to my camp.” 

“ Well, all you have to do is to obey orders. Take care 
of him yourself to-night and don’t stop anywhere on your 
way to Stewart’s to-morrow.” 

With these words the ” Colonel ” turned away, leaving 
Wallace in the hands in which he found him ; and here for 
the present we will leave him also, and go back a couple of 
months to the night on which poor Pauline met her fate. 

It will be remembered that on the evening referred to 
Wallace received a summons to attend a meeting of the 
brethren, to be held at the house of the Ward Bishop. This* 
was no uncommon occurrence, and at such meetings 
hitherto, no business of very great importance had been 
transacted. 

On this particular night, Wallace went as usual without 
knowing or caring particularly why he was sent for. When 
he arrived he found the room well filled with men, most of 
whom were strangers to him. Several persons whom he 


In the Toils. 


233 


knew to belong to the police force were also present, 
occupying the seats next the door. 

There was a little talking in a subdued tone, and in 
answer to a question from Wallace, the Bishop said they 
were waiting for the brother who was to speak to them. 

Wallace sat with his back to the door and did not notice 
when it was opened, or hear the sound of footsteps, until 
the Bishop, turning round, offered his hand to some one who 
had entered, saying, “good evening. Brother Harwood.” 

Raising his eyes with a start, he encountered the fixed gaze 
of the man whom he supposed to be hundreds of miles 
away. Somehow, this unexpected meeting with the returned 
missionary gave the convert less pleasure than might be sup- 
posed ; — he was even conscious of a shiver of dread and 
repulsion, when the new-comer grasped his hand, with great 
seeming cordiality, and inquired after his family. 

By this time, several other brethren had gathered 
round, and Harwood, after exchanging greetings with them, 
asked the Bishop to open the meeting with prayer. 

Then rising, and speaking in a low voice, scarcely above 
a whisper but so distinctly that no one could lose a word, 
he said : 

“ Brethren when the Lord gave us these valleys of the 
mountains for an inheritance, he commanded us not to 
suffer sin among us. If we disobey this command, we lose 
all he has given us. 

“Do you ask how we are to keep it? Why, as his people 
of old kept it ; — by cutting off sinners from the earth. If 
we find one among us who will not keep the law and will 
not be admonished, it is better for that one to die than for 
the whole people to perish. 

“It is to decide the fate of such a one that we are met 
to-night.” 

For half an hour he continued talking in the same strain. 


234 


In the Toils. 


withholding the name of the doomed one until the last sen- 
tence, but when he pronounced the final words : 

“All of you whose mind it is that Pauline R, — should be 
cut off for her sins, raise your right hand,” — it was evident 
that he knew his audience, for every hand was raised. 
Wallace sat directly before the speaker, whose baleful eyes, 
fixed on him with mesmeric power, seemed to paralyze his 
faculties and control his will. When the fatal words were 
spoken that doomed a fellow creature to death, his hand 
was raised with the others, but dropped immediately by his 
side. 

Staring straight before him, conscious of nothing but the 
glittering eyes that held him, he heard, without comprehend- 
ing the next words, addressed to the policemen. 

“ Brethren do your duty.” 

There was a little stir near the door, as the men spoken 
to, passed out, then the voice of the leader was heard 
again. 

“ Let us pray.** 

And in awful though possibly unconscious mockery of 
the. Being whose laws they were breaking, the Bishop, again 
prayed for a blessing on the. night’s work. 

It was not until the meeting broke up and he found him- 
self alone, with the cool breeze from the mountains blowing 
in his face, that Wallace awoke as from a frightful dream, 
and began to realize what he had done. 

“ I am a murderer,” he said half aloud ; — and he held 
up his hands in the moonlight, as though expecting to find 
the stain of blood on them. 

With his brain in a whirl, feeling every moment as though 
he should go mad, and yet conscious of the necessity of 
silence and watchfulness over himself he turned his steps 
homeward. 

In the midst of his mental confusion and bewilderment, 


In the Toils. 


^*35 


one thought was only too clear. He was accessory to the 
murder of the unhappy girl who was perhaps already in the 
hands of her assassins; — and even while he was striving to 
banish the dreadful picture conjured up by his tortured 
brain» her cry for help rang out on the still midnight air. 

Fairly stopping his ears, he hurried from the spot to his 
own door, there to be met, as we have seen, by his wife’s 
accusing question : “ Is it possible that you have witnessed 
a murder without raising a hand to save the victim?” 

He passed the following week in a state bordering on 
insanity, and finally settled down into a state of mind 
which if he had been forced to describe, he would have 
expressed somewhat in this manner: 

“I am not a free agent. I came here consenting to subject 
my reason to my faith. I have no right to reason about this 
matter. If the girl was guilty as alleged, it is not for me 
to say that the Priesthood had no right to decree her pun- 
ishment. I will leave the responsibility where it belongs — 
with those who planned the deed.” Full of contradictions 
as this attempt at self-justification may appear, it is a fair 
sample of the defence made by Wallace’s fellow-believers 
who have been guilty of actual crime ; and these may be 
numbered by thousands. 

Still, in spite of all his efforts to silence reason and con- 
science, he could not wholly put away the awful feeling of 
blood-guiltiness which haunted him at first. 

Besides this there was the fear, always present with him 
now, that he might be called at any day to assist in some 
other deed of darkness, and the consciousness that he would 
not dare to disobey such a call. 

No wonder then that after the experience of the past two 
months, the little which he saw of the bloody tragedy of 
Mountain Meadows was sufficient to strike him down sense 
less at the feet of the murderers who called him” Brother ! ” 


PART II.— Chaf. tl 

AT THE FARM-HOUSE — THE RETURN — TERRIBLE REVE- 
LATIONS. 

It IS time now to return to Mrs, Wallace and Winnie, 
whom we left at the Hcnly farm-house. 

The two weeks named at first as the limit of their stay 
passed, but as the weather still continued very hot, Esther 
now that all present hopes of getting safely out of the Ter- 
ritory seemed cut off, decided not to return to the city until 
the last of September. As yet, they had heard nothing 
from Wallace, but his wife felt no anxiety on his account, 
believing him to have gone, as he had led her to suppose, 
to some of the northern settlements. Another week passed 
quietly ait the farm-house. Winnie was growing so rosy and 
strong that her mother felt well repaid for bringing her 
away from the town. All the members of the Henly house- 
hold seemed intent on making their visitor’s stay a pleasant 
one, but the head of the family, though cordial to his 
guests, appeared restless and ill at ease. The eldest son, 
George, who was summoned away by Harwood, had not 
yet returned, and once or twice Esther happened to over- 
hear his sisters wondering at his long stay. On both oc- 
casions, they were sharply reprimanded by their father for 
troubling themselves about what did not concern them, and 
told that their brother was old enough to take care of him- 
self. The mother, since the first evening’s conversation 
with Mrs. Wallace, had not spoken of her boy, though it 


Ik the Toils. 


237 

was evident from her manner that she was not altogether 
free from anxiety about him. 

Toward the end of the third week, Mr. Henly rode into 
town and remained away a couple of days. When he re- 
turned he brought Mrs. Wallace a message which he said 
was left with her tenants who occupied the small house and 
took care of the place in her absence. It was to the effect 
that Wallace had joined a party going north, to look for 
land suitable for a town-site, and that he might not be home 
before the middle of October. 

It is scarcely necessary to say that this message was of 
Harwood’s coining. It certainly did credit to his inventive 
genius. 

Esther however, received the word brought her in good 
faith. 

Henly told her it was sent by a brother just in from the 
north; and to the natural inquiry why her husband had 
not also sent a letter, he replied that the party met Brother 
Allen on his way to town, and he could not stop for a letter 
to be written. 

Brother Henly also brought his family tidings, probably 
quite as truthful as the above, with regard to George’s 
whereabouts. 

The boy, he said had got back as far as Salt Lake, and as 
he wanted to stay in the City a few weeks, he had given him 
permission to do so. 

Meanwhile, no word had reached the farm-house with 
regard to the fate of the emigrant train, and Esther, finding 
the suspense unbearable, ventured to seek a private inter- 
view with Mrs. Henly, for the purpose of asking what she 
knew or suspected. 

“They say no news is good news,” was the matron’s reply 
to her anxious questions. 

“ If anything very bad had happened them, it would be 


In the Toils. 


whispered about among those who were thought trustworthy, 
but I am quite certain that not a word has reached this 
settlement. It is most probable that the Indians have been 
employed to run off their stock, and that the emigrants 
have made their way out of the Territory, glad to get off 
with only the loss of a few cattle and horses.” 

“ But George.? If he has been South he must know all 
about it.” 

“ I dare say he does, and that is the reason his father 
keeps him away from home for the present. He won’t 
come back till the affair has blown over.” 

” Then you feel quite sure that nothing worse has hap- 
pened to the emigrants than the loss of some of their 
property.?” 

“ That is what I think, but if there has been any serious 
trouble we will know something about it soon, though we 
may never find out the whole truth.” 

This conversation took place three or four days after 
Henly’s return from the City. It was not reassuring, and 
Mrs. Wallace decided to start for home the following Mon- 
day, thinking that in Salt Lake she might hear something 
which would relieve the painful anxiety she felt regarding 
the fate of her cousin. 

The day of their return to their home in town was 
almost the counterpart of that on which they entered the 
valley, just one year ago ; — the same golden light bathing 
the earth, the same soft haze resting on the mountain- 
tops. 

Autumn fllowers still blossomed in the little garden, and 
the trees bent under their weight of ripened fruit. Very 
fair, very peaceful everything looked, but to Esther, whose 
heart was filled with gloomy forebodings, all this outward 
loveliness was but as the flowers blooming above a grave. 
Here she had buried hope and happiness ; here was the 


In the Toils. 


239 


grave of all she had cherished most; — here too, was the 
pit into which the fair child by her side might fall some 
day. 

The tenant of the little house came bustling forward on 
their approach, with the keys in her hand, 

“ We're very glad to see you all home again,” she said 
heartily. “ I took the privilege of opening the house and 
airing the rooms this morning, thinking you might come 
to-day, — but where is brother Wallace.? *’ 

“ Still at the north, I suppose. We have not heard from 
him since we got his message through you.” 

“ His message ! Why Sister Waliace we have’nt heard a 
word from him since he left the keys with us, and that was 
the night after you went away.” 

For one moment Esther felt as though she should fall, 
and caught at the railing of the porch. She had never 
fainted in her life, but the steady nerves and strong self-con- 
trol which had withstood so many shocks were weakening. 

In the single minutes following the discovery that the 
message which set her mind at rest about her husband was 
a lie, a flood of direful apprehensions swept over her. 

Had he too been put out of the way ? Perhaps his body 
was even now lying in some canyon, food for the wolves. 
All the horrible stories she had heard during the past six 
months came rushing into her mind, and for the time her 
fear for her husband’s safety swallowed up all other fear and 
anxieties. 

She tried to recall what he had said when she left home 
but could remember nothing which would afford a clue to 
his whereabouts. It was possible, however, that the tenant 
might know something with regard to the parties in whose 
company he left, or the route he was to take ; so as soon as 
she could collect her thoughts, she bade Winnie to stay with 
Aunt Eunice, and turning to ‘ Sister Mead,' said : 


240 


In the Toils. 


** I will go over to your house and rest a few minutes and 
you can tell me how things have gone since we have been 
away.” 

Sister Mead was a widow with one son, who was just then 
at work in the farthest part of the lot, so the two women 
were quite alone when they entered the house and sat 
down. 

“ Mrs. Mead,” said Esther, “ more than a week ago, Mr. 
Henly brought me a message which he said was from you. 
He told me that a Mr. Allen, coming in from the northern 
settlements, stopped here and left word that my husband 
had joined a party who were looking for a town-site, and 
that he would not be home until the middle of October, 
You say you have heard nothing, and I don’t know what to 
think.” 

“ No more do I Sister Wallace. As I told you, the last I 
saw or heard of your husband was the night after you left. 
He was away all day, but came home about sundown. My boy 
put up his horse and I offered to get his supper, but he said 
no, he should not want anything. Early in the evening 
somebody rode up to the gate and stopped. I looked out, 
naturally, but it was so dark I could’nt see who it was till he 
knocked at the door and it was opened. Then for a minute 
the light shone full on his face.” 

“And you knew him ? ” 

“ I dont know his name, but it was that tall, dark man 
who has beeq at your house so much during the summer.” 

“Did my husband go away with him.?” Involuntarily, 
Esther pronounced the last word in a tone which betrayed 
her fear and detestation of the man who had such a strange 
power for evil over those who gave themselves up to his 
guidance. 

Mrs. Mead looked up surprised. 

“ I can’t say for sure that they went together, but I sup- 


In the Toils. 


241 


pose so, I saw the man's face for just a minute, as I said, 
while he was standing in the doorway. Then he went in 
but came out again soon. About ten minutes afterwards 
Brother Wallace came over here and asked John to saddle 
his horse and bring him round to the gafe. He told me he 
was obliged to go out of town on business and might be 
away until you came home, so he would leave the place in 
my care. He did not say where he was going, and I did’nt 
ask, but John said he waited at the gate till another man on 
horseback came up and they rode away together." 

“ Have you seen that man since the night Mr. Wallace 
went away ? " 

“ Yes, I saw him about two weeks afterwards and again 
this week, but as he is a stranger to me I did not think of 
speaking to him." 

“And you have heard nothing whatever from my 
husband.” 

“ No, nothing." Then observing Esther's pallor and 
agitation she added in a lower tone: 

“ But I can tell you what I think. Quite a number of 
men from this city were sent south just after those emigrants 
were here. It was said that as they were a very lawless 
company they would be likely to make trouble on their way, 
and I heard that the militia were ordered out to watch them. 
Since then, my daughter has been up from Lehi, and she 
says she thought she saw Brother Wallace in company with 
Brother Ricks and about a dozen men from Salt Lake, who 
rode through the settlement going South." 

“ Was it your daughter Mary who used to live across the 
street ? " 

“ Yes, and she knows Brother Wallace so well by sight 
that I don’t think she could be mistaken." 

“ Have any of the men who went south returned to the 
city do you think.'*" 


242 


In the Toils, 


“ Yes, some of them, but not all. There are at least two 
men from this ward besides Brother Wallace who have not 
got home. Then I know of others whose wives have been 
expecting them for two weeks and have heard nothing from 
them, but no doubt they will all get safely back soon. It’s 
a long way to the Southern settlements and a good many 
things might happen to delay them on their journey.” 

“ Did those of the men who have returned bring any word 
about the emigrant train? Have you heard anything? ” 

Sister Mead changed color and moved uneasily on her 
chair. She had a vague recollection of hearing that Mrs. 
Wallace had relatives on the train. What should she say to 
her? She was an honest woman in spite of the influences 
under which she lived, and had still some old-fashioned 
scruples about telling a direct lie. She had heard some- 
thing ; — much more than she was willing to repeat to the 
woman who sat before her, waiting for her answer with pale 
face and anxious eyes. The only evasion she could frame 
sounded weak and shallow enough to herself. 

“You know. Sister W^allace that I hardly ever go out, and 
what news I hear comes through John, who is like all other 
boys, — repeats a story in such a way that it don’t lose any- 
thing in telling. John has heard something aljout a fight 
between the emigrants and the Indians, but I don’t think 
the news he picks up is very reliable.” 

•‘Does John say that any of the emigrants were killed ? ’* 

“ Some of them I believe. The fight took place a good 
ways from the settlements and by the lime our people got 
there it was mostly over.” 

“ Our people ! The Mormons, you mean. What did they 
do ? ” 

“ Why of course they started out to drive off the Indians; 
but as I said before, you can’t place much dependence on 
what John has heard.” 


In the Toils. 


243 


It was plain enough to her questioner that Sister Mead 
whatever she knew did not mean to tell anything more and 
with a very heavy heart Esther rose to go. 

When in her own room, alone with her fears and distress, 
she recalled Mrs. Mead’s confused looks and evasive 
answers and found in them almost certain evidence that the 
worst that could be foreboded had befallen the doomed 
emigrants. What did Mrs. Henly say.? “The Nauvoo 
Legion might be ordered not to suffer any of them to leave 
the Territory alive.’’ This seemed too horrible for belief 
and yet the conviction began to force itself upon her 
mind that if one had perished all had perished. No one 
knew better than the Mormon leaders how fatal would be 
the escape of any of any one who could tell the tale of 
his comrade’s doom. A fight with the Indians! No. There 
had been no such thing. She remembered well enough 
having overheard a party of Mormons just from the South 
say there were not a dozen Indians on the whole route. 
This was in August while the emigrants were camped at 
Salt Lake. If harm had befallen the emigrants, white 
men were responsible for it. Had her husband any know- 
ledge of what had happened ? Was the fate of the train 
in any way connected with his prolonged absence.? Her 
fears supplied one answer to these questions, the remnants 
of her faith in her husband another. ****** 

In after years when she looked back upon the two weeks 
of torturing anxiety and horrible suspense that followed, she 
marveled that she kept her reason. It was now October 
and still no tidings of her husband. Day after day she 
watched the road leading southward. There was no timber, 
no rising ground, nothing to break the view, and with a glass 
she could see every moving object on the highway for many 
miles. It was near sunset on the fourteenth day since her 
return. Somehow as pight fell upon each day of watching 


244 


In the Toils. 


and waiting, the feeling that she must be at her post, the 
first to meet the absent one, was stronger than ever.. 
To-night, as she lifted her glass to scan the distant horizon, 
and then dropping it watched the portion of the road lead- 
ing into town, her mind was carried back to that never-to 
be-forgotten night when she stood watching for her husband 
on the porch of the stone house ; — the night that closed 
upon her last day of happiness and peace. Then without 
any mental effort this picture was shut out and the far-of? 
home of her girlhood rose *up before her. She saw the sun 
set again behind the groves of Louisiana. She stood at the 
gate watching and waiting for her father’s coming. She 
heard the sound of wheels on the highway. She roused 
herself with a start. The picture faded and in its stead she 
saw the dusty highway leading southward, and the lumbering 
canvas- covered wagons of the settlers turning off from it 
into the principal street of the town. It was not for these 
that she was watching and with a weary sigh she left her 
post and entered the house, but almost immediately Winnie 
called out : 

“ Mamma ! There is a wagon stopping at the gate. 

Hurrying out she saw one of the heavy covered farm 
wagons which had just now come into the city. The driver 
jumped down from his seat as she appeared and extended 
his hand to some one inside. There was a minute’s delay 
and then the figure of a man wrapped in a long traveling 
cloak and with a slouched hat concealing his face, became 
visible at the opening of the canvas. He made one or two 
ineffectual attempts to descend and was at length fairly 
lifted to the ground by the driver. By this time the whole 
family were at the gate, and Esther was the first to receive 
into her arms, the trembling, emaciated figure that staggered 
toward her, “ Let me help you ma’am, ” said the driver 
respectfully, “ He’s been pretty sick and the ride has shook 


In the Toils. 


245 


him up a good deal. ” The man's kindly offer was accepted 
and leaning heavily on him and on his wife’s shoulder, 
Charles Wallace re-entered the home he had hardly hoped 
to see again. His eye brightened for a moment as the door 
opened to admit him, but before he could be seated in the 
arm-chair that stood ready for him, he fainted quite away. 
When consciousness returned his gaze rested first on the 
face of his wife, who bent over him. “ Am I home again ? 
Thank God ! " he said feebly, trying to reach out his hand 
to her. 

The man who had brought him still stood in the doorway, 
but as soon as Wallace showed signs of consciousness, he 
moved back a step, or two, and saying : “ I must be going 
strode to the gate and jumping into his wagon drove 
rapidly off and was soon out of sight. 

“ Tears like he*s in a powerful hurry ” muttered Aunt 
Eunice “ Don’t stop for nobody to ax him nuffin. ” 

Wallace who still clung to his wife’s hand, without seem- 
ing to notice the presence of others in the room, now spoke 
again. “ I have been very sick. I thought I was better, 
but this ride has tired me so, I’m afraid you will have to 
let me go to bed. " 

“ Can you walk ? ” asked Esther. 

“ Yes, if you will help me. I want you. Nobody else. ” 
Esther signed to the others to leave the room, and Wal- 
lace exerted all his strength to walk, with her help, into the 
next room. He seemed nervously afraid that she would 
call some one, and to soothe him she told him she needed 
no assistance, and did indeed manage to get him into his 
bed alone. He thanked her earnestly as she settled his 
pillows for him, and then closing his eyes, but still holding 
her hand, appeared to sleep. For more than an hour she 
sat thus beside him. Winnie tiptoed softly into the room to 
see “ poor papa. ” Her loving heart ached a little because 


246 


In the Toils. 


he had not spoken to her or seemed to see her, but his 
sickness excused everything. Mamma whispered to her that 
she could not leave papa tonight, but Aunt Eunice might 
send in a cup of tea by and by. “ May I stay with you 
mamma ” she asked. “ Not now dear”— and though Winnie’s 
face was saddened for a moment, she kissed mamma and 
went out directly, reasoning in her wise little head upon 
the need of perfect quiet in papa’s sick-room. She loved 
her father with all the strength of her affectionate nature, 
and much as she wanted to be with him she would stay 
away all the time rather than disturb him by a foot-fall even. 

Esther, alone, watching beside the sleeping figure that at 
times seemed scarcely to breathe, was conscious for the time 
of nothing but her intense solicitude that he might rest long 
enough to wake refreshed and rational. His sleep appeared 
to be that of one utterly exhausted and surely he must be 
the better for it. 

Toward midnight the sick man showed signs of disturbance. 
He began to toss and mutter incoherently and every few 
minutes threw up his arms with a sharp cry. His wife pre- 
pared a quieting drink and tried to induce him to swallow 
it, but in vain. His ravings became so violent that she was 
forced to call both Aunt Eunice and Jem to her assistance. 
Before morning however he quieted down again and sank 
into a sleep which lasted most of the day. and thus for two 
weeks alternated between delirium and stupor, without a 
single rational interval. , 

Strange to say, there were no inquiries after Brother 
Wallace during his sickness, and with the exception of Mrs. 
Mears, who staid with them most of the time and relieved 
Aunt Eunice of her household cares that she might wait 
upon her sick master, no one came near them. Toward the 
end of the second week Jem came in from the street and 
called Aunt Eunice out on the back porch. 


In the Toils. 


247 


■‘Auntie,” he said, "there’s a chap at the gate, with some 
farm truck, and he wants to see Mrs. Wallace.” 

“You go ’long”, Aunt Eunice answered with some asperi- 
ty. “What for you ’spose Miss Esther would bodder 'bout 
sech trash when she can't leabe Massa Wallace for abressed 
minnit.” 

“Better go stay with him yourself then, for that man is so 
earnest to see the mi^iress I reckon he’s got some word for 
her.” 

“Mebbe det’s so Jem. You's a wise chile after all. I’ll 
tell Miss Esther sure.” 

Aunt Eunice knocked softly at the door of the sick-room. 
“Let me stay a minnit with Massa, honey. Dere’s somebody 
out hyar is ’bliged to see you.” As Esther came out the 
stranger, preceded by Jem, walked in at the kitchen door. 
He was apparently not much older than Jem himself and 
wore the ordinary rough, homespun dress of the farmer lads 
who came in every day to market. As he stood before the 
lady, twirling his whip in his hands, he seemed more than 
commonly awkward and ill at ease. 

“What do you wish?” Mrs. Wallace asked pleasantly. 

“I thought perhaps you might be wanting to buy some 
winter potatoes” — then glancing at Jem who stood on the 
walk outside he added in a hurried whisper “I must see you 
alone, Mrs. Wallace.” “Step this way” she answered in the 
same tone, pointing to an inner room — then aloud — “I 
will perhaps buy a few bushels, if they are good” and then 
calling to Jem to go to the barn and look for a large basket, 
Mrs. Wallace turned from the door and stepping into the 
next room confronted her strange visitor. The lad removed 
his hat, and disclosed a face pale in spite of its sunburned 
tints and boyish blue eyes that were full of trouble and 
dread. “Mrs Wallace” he began in a low hesitating voice, 
“I was with your husband at — at the Meadows. I went 


248 


In the Toils. 


there as he did without knowing what for. They told us 
the Indians were killing the emigrants and we must go and 
help them. I stood beside Brother Wallace when they gave 
the order to fire. I saw his gun drop from his hands — saw 
him fall the next minute. I know he never fired a shot 
or struck a blow and no more did I ; nor would I not even 
if they held a gun to my head to make me do it. And yet 
I’ve never had a day’s peace or a night’s rest since. I 
never will have until I drop into my grave. Oh it was aw- 
ful — awful! — and the women and children — Oh me I” 

He stopped, shuddering, and covered his eyes with his 
hands as if to shut out some horrible sight. “The women I 
The children ! What of them.^” Esther found strength to 
put this question, though her senses reeled and the room 
was turning dark before her. 

“ Don’t ask me. I have said too much already. I only 
wanted you to know that Brother Wallace was not guilty. 
I have come a long way to tell you this, and if I’m found 
out they will kill me too, but I don’t care. I’ve wished 
myself dead a good many times since then.” Without 
waiting for another word he picked up his whip, replaced 
his hat, which he pulled low over his eyes, and hurried out 
to the gate, where Jem who seemed to understand his part 
in the business, was measuring the potatoes, which were 
paid for by Aunt Eunice who soon made her appearance 
and called John from the barn to help carry them into the 
cellar. 

It was well for more than one of the parties concerned 
that this very commonplace transaction covered the real 
object of the stranger’s visit, for, unknown to the Wallaces, 
vigilant eyes watched their house night and day and none 
went in or, came out, unmarked. 

Esther looking out from behind her closed blinds, saw 
the wagon drive away with mingled feelings. The dreadful 


In the Toils. 


249 


news of the massacre was only a confirmation of what she 
had believed for weeks, and the certainty of the emigrants, 
fate was no worse than the horrible suspense of the past 
month. 

Then she had at least one consolation. Her husband 
had no part in the awful crime. She entered the bed-room 
softly, and looked at him as he lay asleep. During the past 
two weeks his ravings had told much of the story of his 
mental tortures since the night of poor Pauline’s murder. 
His wife thought she understood now how he loathed the 
slavery he had brought himself into, and she believed he 
would welcome death as a deliverance from it. Was the 
end near? It seemed so, as he lay there so ghastly, so 
wasted and drawing his breath with short quick gasps. 

For nearly an hour she sat thus, silently watching him 
occasionally wetting his lips with a little wine and water. 

She noticed at length that his breathing appeared more 
natural, and placing her hand on his forehead was certain 
she felt a little moisture. He was better, surely, and with 
a beating heart she bent over him, hoping, almost for the 
the first time, that he might be restored not only to life, but 
to her. 

Another hour passed. He still seemed to be in a quiet, 
refreshing sleep. Esther moved softly about the room, 
putting things in order. When she turned to the bed again, 
she met her husband’s eyes, which were open and following 
her with a look in which there was none of the wildness of 
the fever. She spoke to him and he answered rationally, 
and for the first time asked for Winnie. The little girl was 
not far off, for when not allowed in the sick room she kepi 
her post outside the door, unless sent away by her mother 
into the open air. 

Poor child ! She was almost wild with joy when she 
learned that papa was better and had really asked for her, 


250 


In the Toils. 


but with a thoughtfulness beyond her years, she came softly 
into the room and spoke to him as quietly as though she 
had talked to him every day. 

From this time Wallace improved steadily and rapidly 
and in less than a week was able to sit up. As he grew 
stronger his wife thought she perceived a change in him, but 
one hard to define. It seemed almost as though the mem- 
ory of the past two years had been swept away from his 
mind and he had gone back to the old days in the stone 
house. 

He never made the least allusion to his present position 
and surroundings, but talked freely and naturally upon 
subjects that used to interest him in his former life. 

When, however, he grew so much better as to be able to 
walk out he became more reserved. 

He was kinder than ever to his wife and child and seemed 
full of solicitude for their comfort, but he talked little and 
sp.ent much of his time in his study, seldom going anywhere 
except to the service in the Ward meeting-house on Sunday 
morning, and his attendance there his wife thought must be 
compulsory for he went and came in silence and with a face 
of the deepest gloom. 

The winter this year set in early and was unusually 
stormy ; — which perhaps accounted for the fact that they 
had few visitors. 

It was an unspeakable relief to Esther to be spared the 
almost constant presence of the Ward Bishop, his counsel- 
lors, and various other brethern who used to make them- 
selves quite at home at her house, but most of all she felt 
thankful that the evil face of Elder Harwood never darkened 
their doors. Incidentally she heard that he had gone to 
Australia, and she earnestly hoped he might stay there. In 
his absence Wallace seemed to recover something of his 
former independence and in many respects their home life 


In the Toils. 


251 


was almost as pleasant as before his baleful shadow fell 
across their pathway. ****** 

More than three months had now elapsed since the emi* 
grant train left Salt Lake, and still nothing was said 
publicly about its fate. The Deseret News^ the only paper 
then published in the Territory, never mentioned the sub- 
ject. At first Esther looked over its columns every day 
thinking possibly she might find something which would 
give a clue, however slight, that if followed might enable 
her to learn whether any of the doomed emigrants had 
escaped alive, but as the weeks passed by she gave up the 
search as hopeless. To-night she picked up the paper 
from the floor where her husband had dropped it and glan- 
cing carelessly over the column which first met her eye, her 
attention was arrested by the following paragraph : 

“ More Indian Troubles. 

“It seems, as we prophesied long ago, that emigrant travel 
across the plains to California is to be a never-ending source 
of trouble with the Indians. Our readers will remember, 
that quite a large company of emigrants bound for Califor- 
nia passed through this City about three months ago, in- 
tending to take the Southern route to the Coast. Brethren 
coming in from the settlements through which they passed 
brought reports at the time concerning the lawless conduct 
of these emigrants, mentioning among other things that 
they had poisoned aspring used by the Indians and also dis- 
tributed the flesh of a poisoned ox among them. It ap- 
pears that the savages were so exasperated by this that they 
followed the emigrants to the southern boundary of the ter- 
ritory surrounded their camp at night and surprised them. 
From the rumors which have reached us we can only glean 
enough to make it certain that the emigrants got worsted in 
the fight. Their stock and considerable other property be- 


252 


In the Toils. 


longing to them has been seen in the possession of the Indi- 
ans; — also a number of white children too young to give an 
account of themselves but supposed to belong to the missing 
emigrants. At the instance of Brother John D. Lee who 
has charge of Indian affairs in the South, the children have 
been ransomed and placed in families where they are kindly 
cared for. A report has just reached us that an agent sent 
out by Government will soon be back here to gather up 
these children and take them back to the States. If this is 
so, it seems to us that the government should also pay those 
who have with their private means ransomed the children and 
taken care of them until the present. ” 

Here was “news” truly. What had inspired the priests 
who conducted the paper to make this late mention of the 
fate of the slaughtered emigrants? Since her husband’s 
sickness Esther had remained so closely at home that if ru- 
mors of the deed of blood were circulating among the peo- 
ple she would have had no opportunity of hearing them. 
Now she bethought herself of Mrs. Nye and decided to go 
there in the morning and talk the matter over. Mrs. Nye 
was a Bureau of information in herself, as her friend some- 
times pleasantly told her. She went out a great deal, and 
was, if the truth must be owned, rather fond of gossip. If 
anything out of the usual way happened, Mrs. Nye would 
hear of it if anybody did. News that circulated in whis- 
pers reached her ears through women who, though disaffect- 
ed like herself were cautious enough to keep their practical 
opinions from the knowledge of the Priesthood. 

It was still early when Mrs. Wallace rapped at Mrs. Nye’s 
doer the next morning. The weather was damp and un- 
pleasant and there were few people on the streets but the 
polf:e, faithful in the performance of their duty as spies 
wou'd be likely to be on the alert; so Esther made her ap- 


In thk Toils. 


253 


pearance at her neighbor’s house with a bundle of dry- goods 
in her arms, which, as Mrs. Nye did a little dress-making 
offered a convenient excuse for her visit. 

It no doubt seems incredible to the readers of this nar- 
rative that in aTerritory of the United States, a little more 
than a dozen years ago a lady could not make a morning 
call without being watched and followed by the city police, 
but the writer wishes it to be distinctly understood that such 
was the actual fact, and that the pictures of social life in the 
Mormon capital which these pages present are not over- 
drawn in the least particular. 

When both ladies were seated in Mrs. Nye’s upper room 
a little out of the hearing of anyone who might be listening 
below, Mrs. Wallace unfolded her copy of the News and 
pointed out to her neighbor the article which prompted her 
visit. 

“I had not seen this” Mrs. Nye said after looking it over 
“but I can translate it easily enough. Dr. Forney, the Gov- 
ernment agent spoken of, is already in the City, and Brother 
Carrington means to anticipate his inquiries. Also Brig- 
ham Young, who is as you know, Superintendent of Indian 
affairs for this Territory as well as Governor means to turn 
an honest penny by bringing in a bill for the pretended ran- 
som of the children. You will see that when the affair 
comes to be investigated he will claim that the brethren who 
have the children in their care have been paid by him for 
all expenses incurred.” 

“ You don’t think then that the Indians ever had the 
children .? ” 

“I know just the contrary. You have not been here 
lately and I have not seen you anywhere where it was safe 
to speak above one’s breath, or I could have told you much. 
I went South myself as far as Parowan six weeks after the 
massacre, (for that is what it was,) and I saw some of those 


254 


In the Toils. 


very children. They were in Mormon families, and had 
been since the day their parents were killed.” 

“Killed by the Indians ? ” 

“No, by white men; by the priests and elders of this ac- 
cursed Church; by the very men who have their property 
and their little ones to-day. Listen. In the family in which 
I stopped there was a beautiful little girl about six years old, 
the child of one of the murdered emigrants, — ransomed 
from the Indians, — so they told me. One day when, as it 
happened, the family were out, a poor woman living next 
door came in with a shawl which she wanted me to buy. 
It was a handsome and costly one but she was plainly ig- 
norant of its value, for she offered it to me for less than 
a quarter of its real worth. 

“The little girl was in the room when the shawl was spread 
out for examination. As soon as she saw it, she clasped her 
hands and uttered a startled exclamation. The woman did 
not seem to notice her and as I declined buying, went out 
to find a purchaser elsewhere. 

“As the door closed behind her, the child turned to me 
with a piteous look. 

‘“That was my mother’s shawl,* she said ‘Why did she 
take it away?’ 

“‘Where is your mother? ’ I asked. 

“ ‘ Dead ! dead ! They killed her and the baby, I saw* the 
blood, Oh, dear! ’ 

“ Then beginning to cry, she clung to my dress saying: 

“ ‘ Dont tell please. At the other place they beat me when 
I talked about mother, and the man that brought me here 
said they would whip me nearly to death if I told about 
father and mother and the boys. ’ 

“ ‘ Do they whip you here then ? V 

“‘No, I never say anything and they think I don’t remember, 
but I do. I saw them all killed, and I saw the Indian that 


In the Toils, 


255 


killed mother, wash his face at the spring, and he was a 
white man. He took me home with him. I did'nt want to 
go, but I was afraid, so afraid. Then the women at his 
house said she couldn’t bear to look at me, and so he 
brought me here. He had some of mother sthings but the 
woman told him to take them away. She said there was 
blood on them, but there wasn’t, they were clean things, 
out of mothers trunk. This man here, was there with a gun 
too, I saw him but he dont know it. Oh wont you take 
me away please ? I’ll be good always if you will.* 

“I tell you, Mrs. Wallace, the poor little thing’s pitiful looks 
and words almost broke my heart. I would have given all 
I had in the world to take her home with me, but I knew 
this would not be allowed. I didn’t dare hint such a thing 
even, lest they should suspect that the child had talked with 
me. I comforted her as well as I could by the promise that 
she should be taken away soon and I hope Dr. Forney is 
going to redeem my promise now.” 

Mrs. Nye told the dreadful story with strong dramatic 
emphasis, and rendered the child’s description of the deed 
of blood in such a manner that her listener could not repress 
a cry of horror. Now at the close of the narration she 
leaned back in her chair with a face so white that Mrs. Nye 
thought her fainting, and sprang up in quest of restoratives. 

“Don’t get me anything” she said. “I shall not faint; 
this is not a time for fainting, but for action. If there is a 
Government agent here, all the details of this awful crime 
must be furnished him, that it may be punished as it deserves. 

“ Dr. Forney can get evidence enough if he goes to work 
in the right way, but I'm afraid it will be a longtime before 
justice overtakes the murderers. I haven’t much faith in 
a Government that puts Brigham Young at the head of 
everything here. ” 

Three months later, when with the children which he had 


256 


In the Toils. 


gathered from the different settlements in his care, Dr.Forney 
returned to Salt Lake, Mrs. Wallace sought and obtained 
an interview with him, but though she learned that the 
facts elicited by his inquiries, were such as to fix the guilt of 
the massacre upon the Mormon leaders, she found him not 
at all hopeful of being able to interest the authorities at 
Washington in the matter. 

“The fact is Mrs. Wallace, ” he said, “the people are just 
now too much occupied with political questions of national 
importance to give much thought to anything else. Utah 
is a long ways off, and neither the Territory nor its in- 
habitants are likely to receive even a small share of public 
attention. As for the officials at Washington, they are too 
much exercised over the distribution of the loaves and fishes 
to find time to look into other affairs. 

I shall make a faithful statement of the facts which have 
come to my knowledge supported by such affidavits, as I 
have been able to get but I doubt much if anything is done 
about it.” 

The next week, having heard that two of the rescued 
children were staying with Mrs. Cooke, a lady with whom 
she was slightly acquainted, she called on her, ostensibly to 
talk about music lessons for Winnie, but really hoping to see 
the children and possibly exchange a word with them alone. 

Mrs. Cooke taught music in Brigham Young’s family, and 
on this account Mrs. Wallace supposed her to be a devout 
Mormon, but on the present occasion the lady’s cordiality 
toward herself and the freedom with which she spoke of the 
children and the circumstances under which they were 
brought to her, changed her opinion somewhat. After a 
little time the children themselves, came in from an adjoin- 
ing room. They were boys, the elder apparently between 
eight and nine, the younger about seven. 

After a moment’s hesitation, Mrs. Wallace turned to her 


In the Toils. 


257 


hostess and said : ** Mrs. Cooke, will you allow me to ask 
these boys a few questions ? I had relatives in that unfor- 
tunate company and I may possibly learn something of their 
fate. A little to her surprise Mrs. Cooke answered: “Ask 
them anything you please. ” 

Mrs. Wallace called the elder boy to her and said: 

“My child, did you know Mrs. Cleveland and her daugh- 
ter Esther?” 

“Yes maam.” 

“Where are they now?” 

“Dead, I think.” 

“What makes you think so?” 

“I wasn’t very far from them when — when they began to 
shoot. I heard somebody say ‘Run for your lives’ and 
mother and I were running as fast as we could when Mrs. 
Cleaveland and Esther passed us. She had hold of Esther’s 
hand. They were trying to run away from a man with a 
knife, — a white man. The Indians were ahead of them and 
they had guns. Mrs. Cleaveland fell down. She had hold 
of Esther. I think the Indians shot them both. They put 
us children in a wagon after the shooting was over, and we 
staid .there while the white men talked with the Indians. I 
never saw Mrs. Cleaveland or Esther again. I never saw any 
of the women or the big boys and girls. There wasn’t any- 
body in the wagon bigger than me, except Charley, and he 
talked about the man that killed his father one night and in 
the morning they took him away. I’ve never seen him eith- 
er since then. They told us he’d gone to live with the In- 
dians.” 

“Was Charley your brother?” 

“Noma am, they killed my two brothers and father and 
mother and all our folks.” 

“Who killed them? The Indians?** 

“No. — White men killed them but the Indians helped.” 


In the Toils. 


*S8 

By this time both the children were trembling and crying, 
overcome by the memory of all they had lost. 

“Better go to your own room, my dears," Mrs. Cooke 
said, and the boys went obediently, trying hard to check 
their sobs. 

When they were gone, Mrs. Cooke turned and faced her 
visitor. 

“This is dreadful, Mrs. Wallace," she said. 

“I have no reason to doubt what these children tell me 
and their story makes it only too clear that white men — Mor- 
mons — have committed a crime that savages would shrink 
from." 

“And is it not also apparent that this whole people have 
aided in covering up the crime.^" 

“No. For multitudes of our people knew nothing of it; 
many know nothing of it to this day, but we will not 
talk about it, talking can do no good now and the whole sub- 
ject is something too horrible to dwell upon." 

After a few words more upon ordinary topics, Mrs. Wal- 
lace took her leave, carrying with her the conviction that 
Mrs. Cooke believed the Mormon leaders responsible for 
the massacre, and the impression that she would no longer 
follow such leaders. She learned soon afterwards that Dr. 
Forney had returned to the States taking the two boys with 
him, the other children having been previously sent East 
under a safe escort. 


PART II. — Chapter vii. 

TWO YEARS AFTER. — TIGHTENING OF THE TOILS. — THE 
BLOW SO LONG DELAYED FALLS AT LAST. 

We pass now over an interval of two years. 

It is spring again in the City of the Saints. The valleys, 
filled to the brim with bloom and verdure, and bound with 
a glittering circlet of snowy peaks are more lovely than 
ever. The air is heavy with the fragrance of a thousand 
blossoming orchards. The Lake glows like molten gold 
under the rays of the setting sun and rosy lights and purple 
shadows clothe the mountains like a monarch’s robe. There 
is nothing to mar the perfect beauty of the picture. No 
rude sound breaks the almost Sabbath stillness. 

The blue waters of the Jordan tell no talcs of those who 
sleep beneath them. There is no crimson stain on the sod 
of the valley and the mountains give no sign of the bleaching 
bones hidden in the caverns. 

“ What a fair mantle to cover so much that is vile! ” 

This thought was always present to one at least whose 
eyes rested on the beautiful landscape spread out under 
May skies. 

To-night as on many other nights, Esther Wallace sat on 
the balcony of her house with her daughter beside her 
and echoed the longing of the Psalmist: ** Oh that I had 
wings like a dove! ” 

Had she been alone, for her husband’s sake she might 


26 o 


In the Toils. 


have resigned herself to what seemed her inevitable fate. 

But she was not alone. 

Winnie, growing more beautiful with every passing year 
was now nearly twelve and so womanly in appearance that 
she might have been thought three years older. 

The mother's eyes turned from the landscape to rest on 
the fairer picture at her feet. 

Winnie knelt on a cushion with her head resting against 
her mother’s knee. The level rays of the setting sun shone 
on the rippling waves of her chestnut hair and as the mother 
looked down it seemed to her that a glory encircled her 
darling’s head. 

Long and tenderly her gaze lingered on the kneeling 
figure and the uplifted face tinged with a sweet seriousness 
which did not belong to her childish years. 

Winnie’s violet eyes were fixed on the distant mountain 
tops as though she too shared the longing that stirred her 
mother’s heart. 

A flock of gulls rose slowly from the lake and sailed away 
eastward. She turned her head and followed their flight 
with a wistful look. When they were out of sight she sighed 
audibly. 

“ What is it my daughter ? ” asked the mother. 

“ I have been watching those birds, mamma. It is so easy 
for them to get away, so hard for us, — and then they don’t 
have to leave anybody behind that they love. ’* 

“ Dear, have you forgotten who it is that cares for the 
birds and asks * Are ye not better than they ? ’ ’* 

“No mamma, I have not forgotton, and that is the only thing 
that makes it possible to live here. The sun shines and the 
flowers grow in this dreadful country, and all the little 
things — the birds, and the squirrels, and rabbits that we see 
when we walk out on the hills, are taken care of, so God 
must be here too, ” 


In the Toils. 


261 


** That reminds me of a hymn my mother used to sing 
when I was a very little child.” 

“ Sing it to-night mamma. ” 

And in a low sweet voice, and with her eyes raised to the 
calm heavens, Esther sang: 

Could 1 be cast where Thou art not* 

That were indeed a dreadful lot, 

But regions none remote I call* 

Secure of finding God in all. 

I hold by nothing here below. 

Appoint ray journey and I go. 

Though friends forsake and foes deride, 

I feel The good; — feel naught beside. 

To me remains nor place nor time, 

My country is in every clime. 

I can be calm and free from care 
On any shore, since God is there. 

“ That is very beautiful mamma, I only wish we could 
feel so .” 

“ We might, if we had the faith that comforted and sus- 
tained the sorely-tried one who wrote the hymn.” 

“ Who is it mamma ? ” 

“ One who lived and died long ago. She was called 
Madam Guion. ” 

A summons from below here interrupted the conversa- 
tion, and hand in hand the mother and daughter descended 
the stairway. In the hall Aunt Eunice met them and handed 
her mistress a a note. Esther opened it and read: 

“ My only Friend : 

Will you come to me to-night ? Robbie is dying. 

Theresa St. Clair. *’ 

She passed the note to Winnie who read it and turned to 
her with tearful eyes. 

“ May I go with you mamma ? ” 


262 


In the Toils. 


“No love. I will stay all night, and you will be better 
at home, ” 

“ What is it ? ” asked Wallace, who at the moment en- 
tered the hall. 

“ Mrs. St. Clair has sent for me. Her boy is dying. ** 

“ Shall you go ? ” 

“ Certainly. ” 

“ I will go with you then. It is too far for you to think 
of going alone, and if you have to stay all night, I will 
come for you in the morning. ’* 

It may be remarked here that ever since the occurrences 
of two years ago, Wallace seemed nervously afraid of having 
his wife or Winnie go out alone, even in the day time. He 
always accompanied them himself if possible and when 
unavoidably absent made them promise to take Aunt Eunice 
or Jem with them. 

Now as soon as Esther was equipped for her walk he 
presented himself at the door and giving her his arm rather 
hurried her steps down the path and along the sidewalk. 

“ You are going almost too fast for me, “ she said when 
at a little distance from their own gate. “ Why do you 
hurry so ? “ 

“ Because it is going to be quite dark. The new moon 
gives a little light now, and I want you to reach Mrs. St. 
Clair’s before it sets.” 

“ I am not afraid of the dark. ’* 

“ No, perhaps not. But the light is safer nevertheless.” 

The husband and wife talked little during their rapid 
walk. Wallace, as we have noted before, had grown to be 
a reserved, silent man ; and to-night Esther’s mind was 
filled with thoughts of her sorrowing friend. 

At the door Wallace bade his wife good-night, declining 
to enter but promising to call for her early in the morning. 

Esther rapped softly and the door was opened by Bern- 


In the Toils. 


263 


ard, one of the twins, now grown to be tall boys of twelve. 

Mrs. St. Clair sat beside Robbie’s bed, supporting him in 
her arms. At first sight he did not seem like one near 
death. His fair hair was brushed back from his transparent 
temples, his blue eyes shone with almost startling brilliancy 
and there was a bright crimson spot on either cheek. 

He smiled as Esther drew near the bed. “ I thank you 
for coming, ” he said, “ you are very good. ’* His voice 
sounded clear and strong, and she thought it must be as 
hard for the mother as it was for her to realize that the hand 
of death was upon him. 

“ You knew I would come Robbie. Why did you not 
send for me before ? ** she asked. 

“ Mother did not think me any worse than usual until 
this week, and we have taxed your kindness so much, but I 
am glad you are here now, — glad for her sake as well as for 
my own. ” 

“ I have come to stay, Robbie, but you must not talk too 
much. ** 

. “ That is what I have just said to him. ’* 

It was Mrs. St. Clair who mow spoke for the first time. 
She had acknowledged Esther’s entrance by a grateful look 
and a pressure of the hand but when she tried to speak, her 
voice refused to serve her. 

“ Mother ” and Robbie turned his bright eyes full upon 
her, “ let me talk to-night. I must say all I have to say 
in a little while. 

A spasm of pain passed over the mother’s face. She 
lifted her eyes, full of anguish, towards Heaven, and the cry 
of burdened hearts through all time found utterance in the 
un forgotten language of her childhood: 

Lteber Gott^ erbarme Dick meiner. 

“ Mother, mother. He does have pity. Is it not His pity, 


264 


In the Toils. 


His love, that is lifting me above all pain and sorrow into 
his blessed rest ? ** 

“ Child, I do not grieve because you are going, but be- 
cause I must stay ; *’ then as her eyes fell upon the two 
boys who were standing at the foot of the bed, she added 
remorsefully : 

“But I should not wish to go and leave these behind, like 
lambs in the wolfs den. — I who brought them here. ” 

“Mother!” Robbie raised his head from her arm and 
looked from one to another with the clear glance of dying 
eyes — eyes that see through and beyond the mists of earth, 
“ Am I going so very far away ? Remember how you used 
to love the lines in Uncle Rupert’s book. 

^Ich sag* es Jedem das er lebt 
Und aufersianden isf, 

Das er in unserer Mitte schwebt 
Und ewig bet uns ist> 

“And who knows? Maybe the dear God will let me do 
something for you and the boys when I am gone to Him. ’* 

“Oh Robbie.” It was Bernard’s voice, broken with sobs, 
that answered. “What can you do for us when we are never 
to see you any more. You will be gone from the house, 
gone when we come in to talk to you or bring you something 
we have found, — gone, and how will we live without you?’ 

Robbie held out his thin hands to both his brothers. 

“Come to me Bernard, and you too Herman. 

“How strong your hands are! How warm! They are 
kind hands too. They have done a great deal for me, and 
they will work for mother I know. 

* An inadequate translation of these beautiful lines of Novalis is given 
below ; 

I say of each one that he lives ; 

That he is risen ; 

That he moves In our midst 

And is forever with us. 


In the Toils. 


26s 


‘‘Brothers,” and Robbie’s voice was very tender, “ I shall 
love you just as well when you cannot see me as I do now. 
I will never forget you. 1 will watch for you till you come 
to me, and while I am watching and waiting you must take 
care of mother. Promise me now that while you live you 
will try never to do anything that would wound her dear 
heart.” 

“We do promise,” said both the boys together, their sobs 
hushed, while Robbie still held their hands. 

“Now do one thing more for me, like the good boys that 
you are. Lie down and sleep until mother calls you. I 
think I can rest awhile, if I know that none of you are griev- 
ing for me.** 

The boys obeyed, and Robbie added, “Mother darling, fix 
my pillows so that I can lie down, and then let Mrs. Wallace 
sit beside me while you rest.** 

When his wish was complied with, Mrs. Wallace took the 
chair beside him. He motioned his mother to a low seat 
at the foot of the bed saying, “If you will only sit there and 
rest your poor tired head on a pillow I can sleep. I would 
have nothing to trouble me now if you were not so tired and 
so sorrwful.” 

The mother did her best to please him. He watched her 
a few minutes, and then thinking she was really resting, 
closed his own eyes and in a little while slept. 

The hours of the night wore on. The two anxious watch- 
ers kept their places, speaking in whispers, and listening to 
the sleeper’s quick, irregular breathing. Gradually the color 
faded out from his face and a clammy moisture covered his 
cheeks and forehead. 

Esther wiped it away, keeping her finger on his pulse. 

The day was beginning to break and still he slept. The 
mother put back the curtain and let the light fall upon his 
face. He stirred a little and partially unclosed his eyes. 


266 


In the Toils. 


‘‘Call the boys,’* Esther said in a quick whisper. The 
mother roused them and in a moment they stood with her 
beside the bed. “Robbie” she said aloud. He opened his 
eyes and fixed them on her face with a clear bright look, then 
tried to reach out his hands. “My brothers! Where are 
they.?” The boys pressed nearer. “Good bye Bernard, Good 
bye Herman. I am going to the dear God. Mother, good 
bye. I see a light. They are coming. Kiss me once be- 
fore I go.” 

His lids dropped, his voice failed, and every faint, flutter- 
ing breath seemed the last. 

All at once he opened his eyes, lifted both hands and 
cried in a clear, strong voice, “Dear Lord, I come!” 

He sank back, his limbs relaxed and the pallor of death 
settled upon his features. “It is over” said Esther. “Thank 
God.? He is already where the tears are wiped from all faces, 
where there is no more death neither sorrow nor crying nor 
any more pain.” 

The mother did not answer. Her whole soul seemed 
drawn out in the fixed gaze with which she regarded the dead 
face of her first-born. The two boys threw themselves 
across the foot of the bed sobbing loudly. 

Esther put her arm around her friend. “Dear, can you 
not give thanks that all his weary days and nights are end- 
ed? That he is saved from the evil to come?” 

The last words roused her. 

“Yes,” she said. “He is out of the power of wicked men 
I do thank God.” 

**♦•*••*** 

Five years later. 

There is little outward change in the principal characters 
of our story, except such as time always makes. The child- 
ren have grown to maturity, and the men and women carry 
a few more scars from the Battle of Life. 


In the Toils. 


267 


Winnie Wallace has blossomed from childhood into wo* 
manhood. At seventeen she is taller than her mother and 
fairer even than the picture that through her life has em- 
bodied all her dreams of beauty; — the “Queeh Esther” 
hanging on the parlor wall; — her mother’s portrait, painted 
the year of her marriage. 

And the mother, — what of her? She is past her thirty- 
seventh year, past the noon of life, and though these years 
and the sorrows they have brought with them have left their 
traces on cheek and brow, she is still a beautiful, graceful 
woman with a sweet dignity of manner and an air of com- 
mand that keeps for her the title earned in her girlhood. 

Her husband is more changed. He is only four years her 
senior, but he looks older. His tall figure is slightly bent 
and the “golden fleece” about which his wife used to jest in 
their honeymoon, is turning to silver. There are deep line- 
of care on his still handsome face, and his eyes, the beauti- 
ful violet eyes that Winnie has inherited, no longer meet 
those of wife and child with the clear, open look of other 
days. To his family, these changes are less apparent be- 
cause they have come so gradually and there are other chang- 
es in him which they feel less for the same reason. 

He is always reserved, often moody, and though he never 
speaks unkindly to wife or daughter he spends little time in 
their society even when at home. His study is tacitly under- 
stood by the family to be forbidden ground, and there he sits 
alone, often with locked doors, through the long summer 
mornings and winter evenings. ***** 

On the particular summer of which we are writing, how- 
ever, another change occurred which they could not help 
noticing. He began to spend days and even weeks away from 
home, “ on business,” he said, though what the business was 
he did not explain. He spoke sometimes of going into the 
countiy to look at land or look at stock, and once tolc his 


268 


In the Toils. 


wife, he thought of buying a ranche, but his jaded, har- 
rassed looks, when he returned from these trips, were hard 
to account for in connection with the every day business 
which was their ostensible object. 

A growing uneasiness oppressed his wife as his absences 
from home became more frequent. She could hardly 
define what she suspected, but the fear that the Priesthood 
were drawing him into complicity with some fresh crime 
haunted her continually. 

It was late in September when her husband, returning 
one day from the country, brought an invitation from the 
Henlys, with whom they had always maintained friendly re- 
lations. Mrs. Henly wished Mrs. Wallace to bring her 
daughter and spend a week at the farm house, he said, . and 
he seemed quite anxious that they should go — Jem could 
drive and they must take Aunt Eunice with them. 

Mrs. Mead, who was still their tenant, could take care of 
the house and get his meals for him when at home, but he 
should probably be out of town a good deal. 

Esther, from some cause which she could not explain, felt 
reluctant to accept the invitation, but Winnie was eager to 
go and her wishes prevailed. 

As on that never-to-be-forgotten morning eight years be- 
fore, they started early to escape the mid-day sun. 

Wallace took an unusually affectionate leave of them, com- 
ing back the second time to kiss his wife and daughter good 
bye and charge Aunt Eunice to take good care of both. 

When they reached the end of the street leading 
out of town, Esther looked back and saw her husband still 
standing at the gate watching them. With a strange chill, 
an undefinable presentiment of evil, she continued to look 
back until a turn in the road hid him from her sight 
Never, not even on that other morning when she thought 
she might be bidding him good-bye for the last time, had 


In the Toils. 269 

she felt such a sinking of the heart. The day was warm, 
but she shook as if in an ague fit. 

Winnie was leaning forward, chatting merrily with Aunt 
Eunice, and none of the party noticed her agitation. In a few 
minutes she regained outward self-control, but her heart lay 
like lead in her bosom all the way, and during their week’s 
stay at Henly’s the same feeling continued. 

It was an unspeakable relief to her when the time named 
for their visit expired, and though Winnie begged to stay a 
little longer and all the family united in urging them to do 
so, she would not delay her return an hour. Once on the 
road, a feverish anxiety took the place of the dull pain that 
oppressed her and she ordered Jem to drive faster, and re- 
peated the order until the horses were urged to their utmost 
speed. 

They reached home early in the afternoon. Mrs. Mead, 
from her own door saw them drive up and came over with 
the keys. “ I would have had the house open,*’ she said 
apologetically, “but we did’nt look for you so soon.** 

“ Where is my husband ?’* 

“ Brother Wallace? Oh he ain*t home. He’s been away 
most of the time since you left, but iVe looked after things. 
You’ll find the house all right. Here’s the keys. I must 
run over home now, for I’ve left some bread in the oven. J em 
can call me if I*m wanted.** 

Sister Mead appeared considerably “ flustrated,** to use a 
favorite expression of her own. She never once raised her 
eyes during the delivery of this rapid monologue, and as 
soon as the keys were out of her hands she turned and ran 
towards her own house with a haste which even burning 
bread could hardly excuse. 

Aunt Eunice looked after her muttering : 

“ Dere’s some more debbiltry afoot, sure’s I’m standin, 
hyar. Dat critter means well enuff, an* when she knows 




In the Toils. 


’bout enny ob dere wickedness she can’t hide it like she’s 
tolefortodo. Wonder what’s up dis time ? Hopes itanuf- 
fin dat’s gwine to tech Miss Esther or dat bressed lamb.” 

Winnie, in spite of her tall stature was still Aunt Eunice's 
“ lamb,” and cared for accordingly She watched her now 
as she tripped lightly up the stairs, praying in her honest, 
affectionate heart for her darling’s safety, and not until the 
girl was out of sight did she think of the chaos that might 
reign in her own dominions in consequence of her week’s 
absence. 

Esther, meantime, had gone directly to her own room on 
the first floor. 

As soon as she opened the door, she was conscious of a 
change. Some familiar articles were out of their places, 
others were missing entirely, and a general air of confusion 
and disarrangment pervaded the room. Her first impulse 
was to call Mrs. Mead and speak to her about the disordered 
furniture, but as she was crossing the room to do so, her 
eye fell on a letter lying on the table directed to her in the 
well-known handwriting of her husband. She took it up 
and held it a moment unopened. What was it? What 
could it mean ? Again she felt her heart turning to ice in her 
bosom. All the dread, the nameless fears of the past weeks 
rushed back upon her. With an effort she broke the seal, 
and there traced in unsteady characters which showed how 
the hand that held the pen trembled, she read ; 

Esther : 

Wife, I dare not call you, for when you have read these lines you 
will count me your husband no longer. I have been a slave for years, 
this you know, but you cannot know the strength of my bonds or the 
depths of my degradation. In my blindness I took upon myself oaths 
— oh, such fearful ones — in that accursed Endowment House, and when 
my eyes were opened I was bound hand and foot for I was already 
a criminal. My masters made me share in their blood guiltiness. 

Guiltiness, knowing that afterwards I could not rebel if I would. 


In the Toils. 


271 


Esther, I have lived by your side year after year, knowing myself 
unworthy to breathe the same air with you. My very presence was 
contamination, I ought to of left you long ago. Now, in obedience to those 
whose command I imbrued my hands in blood, I am about to commit 
another crime, one that will separate us for ever. I am to be sealed to one 
chosen for me by those who hold me, body and soul, in their hands. I have 
only seen the girl once. She is a timid creature who accepts the fate 
forced upon her as I do, — because she dares not rebel. * * 

I have done what I could to spare you painful meetings. My per- 
sonal effects have all been removed to the farm I have bought. I 
shall live there. Your threshold I will never cross without your per 
mission and that I dare not hope for. 

Esther, My first, last, only love, — I do not presume to ask forgiveness, of 
you or of God, — I can do nothing but look back from the hell I 
have made for myself to the heaven that was ours once. Is it possible 
for you to pity me? I do not know. I deserve nothing, I ask noth- 
ing, only — only, by the memory of the happy years we have spent 
together, by the memory of that little far-off grave we have both 
watered with our tears, I pray that my daughter may not learn to 
hate her wretched father. My sin against her is not like my sin 
against you and she may not cast me out of her heart altogether. Some- 
times, perhaps; you will not refuse to let me see her. This is the 
only hope I have. Do not take it from me. 

Charles Wallace. 

She stood as though turned to stone, with the letter stiL 
in her hand. The lihes glared at her from the page with 
horrible distinctness. 

I am going mad, God pity me ” she said aloud, There 
were footsteps in the hall, Winnie was looking for her. 
The door was within reach of her hand. She locked it and 
shoved the bolt. Winnie knocked gently, calling: 

“ Let me in, mamma. I’ve come to help you. ” 

“ Not now, ” she answered and heard her daughter turn 
from the door ; — listened till her footsteps died away. As 
yet, the hideous secret was her own. Winnie did not know. 
Oh, if she might never know. 

She lighted a candle and held the letter in the flame until 




In the Toils. 


it burned to ashes. The blaze scorched her hand. She 
smiled as she felt the pain. “ How good it would be if I 
could turn to ashes as easily as that paper” she said aloud. 
Then the horrible feeling that she was going mad again 
took possession of her. “ I must not, 1 must not, ” she cried, 
“ Winnie ; my child, my lamb, I must live, I must keep 
my reason until you are safe. Oh God forsake me not 
utterly. ” 

When did such a cry ever go up from human lips without 
reaching the ear and the heart of Infinite Pity? It was 
heard and answered now. The mists began to clear away 
from her brain. She sat down and began to think calmly. 

The blow, so long delayed had fallen. She knew, all 
along, that it might come, and yet it was as crushing and 
paralyzing as though she had never dreamed of it. What 
was it that he had written? 

Will it be believed that of all the fatal letter which now 
lay before her, a heap of white ashes, the only line that she 
recalled at first was, “ Esther, my first, last, only love. ** 

He had loved her then through all these years. If she 
had known, might he not have been saved by love ? Was 
she altogether free from blame ? Then* like the hoarse cry 
of a drowning man his bitter, despairing words rang in her 
ears. “ I can only look back from the hell I have made for 
myself to the heaven that was ours once, ** and for the time 
pity for him swallowed up every other feeling. The coming 
years rose up before her ; blank, empty years ; — years of 
that hollow mockery that the world calls living when all 
that makes our life is gone. Would it not be harder for 
him than for her ? Would he not go about like Cain, crying : 
“ My punishment is greater than I can bear ? ” 

Winnie knocked at the door again. 

She could not see her yet ; could not tell her that she was 
fatherless and her mother worse than widowed. Poor child ! 


In th£ Toils. 


273 


So young, so tender, so unused to sorrow, the blow would 
kill her. 

Word by word the unhappy father’s prayer forced itself 
upon her mind : “ Do no't let my daughter hate me. ” No, 
she would not. 

“ He is still her father though he is not my husband, ** 
she said half aloud. “ Let that be as though I had happily 
died last week. Winnie shall not hate her father. ” 

“ Once more she heard her daughter’s voice calling in 
pleading tones, “ Mamma, dear mamma, let me in. You 
looked so tired on the way I fear you are sick.” 

“ Wait a minute, dear, ” and with the quick instinct of 
love, — was it love for the father or daughter, or both ? — she 
extinguished the candle, brushed the ashes of the burned 
letter carefully into the grate, removed her bonnet and 
•hawl, and darkened the room by dropping the blind before 
ihe opened the door. 

“•What is the matter mamma? Everything is out of place 
said Winnie looking around. “ Surely you have not been 
trying to put the room to rights yourself when you are so 
tired?” 

“ No, love. The room will do well enough until morning. 
I am tired as you say, and if you will bring me a cup of tea 
I think I will lie down. ” 

“ Let me help you undress first.** 

“ No, I would rather have you make the tea. You know 
I always like it best when you make it yourself. ” 

* Very well mamma, but may’nt I bring you something to 
eat. ” 

“ Yes dear, a little toast, ” and Winnie turned and went 
out with the light, quick step that the fond mother loved to 
watch and listen for, while Esther, glad of the few minutes 
delay as a condemned criminal of a reprieve, bathed her 
pallid face, brushed back her hair, changed her traveling 


274 


In the Toils, 


dress for a wrapper and seated herself in an easy chair in 
the darkest corner of the room. How she dreaded the 
questioning looks of those bright young eyes. How she 
feared that she should betray herself! For Winnie must not 
know to-night. Oh, no. Let her sleep in peace one night 
more, ignorant of the blight that had fallen upon their lives. 
She had scarcely seated herself when Winnie entered, bring- 
ing a tray spread with the whitest damask and holding the 
tea-service of dainty china brought from their old home. 
“ Now you dear, tired mamma, ” she said gaily, “ You can- 
not help eating and drinking, I have made everything so 
nice. Here is the toast, golden brown, just the shade you 
like, and here is some of the jelly I made myself in the 
summer, and the tea — oh, I know you will say that is 
superb.’* 

Esther smiled faintly. Like poor Marian Earle, through 
all these sorrowful years she had 

Kept a sort of smil6 in sight 

To please the child, like a flower jn a cup. 

Winnie drew a light-stand beside the chair, placed the tray 
on it and was about to raise the curtain when her mother 
stopped her. “ Let it be dear, ” she said, “ that west win- 
dow makes the room too light for sleeping and I am going 
to lie down as soon as I drink my tea. ’* Winnie obeyed 
and seated herself at her mother’s feet, declining to share 
the cup of tea and plate of toast upon the plea that she did 
not wish to spoil her appetite for the good supper Aunt 
Eunice was getting up. She would not leave the room 
until she saw her mother safe in bed, and not then until she 
had exacted a promise from her not to fasten the door. 
•* Tm coming in again after supper, ’* she said, laughing and 
looking back as she went out with the tray, “ so make the 
most of your time till then.” — When the door closed behind 
her retreating figure, the mother’s forced self-control gave 


In the Toils. 


275 


way. No tears moistened her burning lids, but dry shiver- 
ing sobs convulsed her whole frame. She clenched her 
hands until the nails cut into the flesh. How long she lay 
there battling with hysterical spasms, she did not know, but 
the moment she heard Winnie’s returning footstep she was 
recalled to the necessity of mastering herself. With a 
powerful effort she composed her features, closed her eyes, 
and lay so quiet, that Winnie, coming softly to the bedside, 
thought her sleeping and so reported to Aunt Eunice at the 
door. Esther listened to their whispered conference, heard 
them plan to make themselves beds in the parlor, within 
call, in case she wanted anything, and heard the door close 
finally with the hope of being left alone till morning. 

The history of that night will never be written. The 
stricken heart, alone with God, fought the terrible battle with 
self and suffering through which so many hundreds were 
passing all around her, but unlike many others, came off 
victorious. The morning light found her prostrate in body 
but calm in spirit. Too weak to rise from her bed, she felt 
in the depths of her soul the peace of God. Bereft of 
earthly love and earthly hope, her whole heart was drawn 
above. She seemed again to hear her dead mother’s voice 
singing softly: 

“ I feel Thee good; — feel naught beside. ** 

Winnie came to her bedside at sunrise. She had been 
there once or twice during the night but thinking that her 
mother slept well had left her to her rest. 

“ You feel well this morning mother dear.** she said 
cheerfully. 

“ Quite well, my daughter but not very strong. I think 
I will not get up quite yet. ” 

“ That is right, lie still and I will make your break- 
fast.” 

Noon came and still she did not feel quite strong enough 


276 


In the Toils. 


to rise. Thus a couple of days passed. Winnie wondered 
a little at her father’s absence, but would not speak to her 
mother about it. Aunt Eunice was anxious and worried at 
heart, but kept a cheerful face. On the third morning 
Winnie was standing at the gate when two of their neigh- 
bor’s daughters passed. They were bold, forward girls, 
who regarded Winnie’s beauty and her elegant dress in the 
light of personal affronts which they were bound to resent. 
They stopped now on seeing her at the gate, and bade her 
good morning. She answered them civilly, and Maria, the 
elder girl, asked, “ Is your pa home ? ” 

“ He is not,” was the quiet answer. 

“Spose he’s staying out to the farm this week with his 
other wife.” 

“With wMtf** 

“ Why, with his second, that was Lizzie Simmons. We 
hadn’t seen her around, but we s’posed your pa ’ud bring 
her here sometimes. We knew Lizzie. She used to live in 
our ward.” 

“ I do not understand you,” Winnie said, with dignity, 
turning from them and walking back to the house. Poor 
child ! Her heart was nearly bursting. The girl's coarse 
words were spoken just in time to give shape to the fears 
awakened by her mother's sickness and her father’s pro- 
longed absence. Now the dreadful fear that what was said 
mg/it be true, kept her from her mother’s room and sent her 
to the kitchen instead. Aunt Eunice listened to her story 
and shook her head sorrowfully. “ Poor lamb I So does 
yer no 'count white trash 'suit yer ’cause yer auntie wa’ant 
thar. I don’t go for to say as yer pa haint acted very 'sterious 
an’ I’se feared some sech story has got to yer ma in some 
way, though how I doesn’t know, but dare's sumfin I h'tt 
do, dat Missis Mead knows whar yer pa is I’ll be boun' an' 
I’se gwine straight to make her tell. ” 


In the Toils. 


277 


“Oh, no, Auntie,” Winnie began, but Aunt Eunice was 
already half-way across the lot, and a minute afterwards she 
entered Mrs Mead’s kitchen door. The good woman was 
roiling out pie-crust, but stopped to bid her caller good 
morning. 

“Mornin*,” 

Aunt Eunice answered shortly, “ I’se come hyar to ax 
a question an’ I wants a straight answer. Whar’s Massa 
Wallace?” 

Sister Mead turned crimson and dropped her rolling-pin. 

“Brother Wallace ? Why he — he's at the farm.” 

“Wat’s he doin’ dar when his place is hyar an’ his own 
wife dunno, no more’n de dead whar he be?” 

“Why, business,” 

“Don’t you go to tell bout bizness. You knows better, 
Hyar’s my missis sick an’ low-lived white trash ’suiting 
Miss Winnie ’bout her pa’s second wife. Now you knows 
de troof an’ you’s got to tell it.” 

Aunt Eunice’s portly figure blocked up the door way 
and her hand was raised threateningly. Poor Sister Mead 
gasped, looked about helplessly as though seeking a way of 
escape and finally answered desperately; 

“ Brother Wallace was sealed to Liza Simmons the day 
after you left. I helped him pack his things to take to the 
farm. He didn’t give me any word for you, and I could’nt 
tell any more if you was to kill me.” 

Aunt Eunice dropped her raised arm and walked away 
without a word. It was only the confirmation of her fears» 
but the truth, put into plain words, struck her like a thun- 
derbolt- She could not face her mistress or Winnie, so she 
walked to the barn to gain a little time, and there met Jem» 
who had heard the news from another quarter and was com- 
ing to tell her. She answered him roughly as was her wont 
when troubled, and turned back to the house. Winnie met 


278 


In the Toils. 


her in the door-way. “ Oh Auntie,” she cried, “ it is true. 
I know by your face that it is. Poor mamma ! She will die.” 

“ Hush chile, yer ma '11 hear ye. An’ don’t you go to her 
with no such scart look.” 

“ I will not, Auntie. I will be quiet, but oh tell me where 
is papa ?” 

“What fur you call him dat? What’s he now to you or 
yer poor ma ”? Then noticing poor Winnie’s white face and 
quivering lip, she added in a softer tone, “ Pore lamb ! yer 
Auntie did’nt mean to be cross. Better go up to yer own 
room an’ pray de Good Lord fur help in time ob trouble. 
Go, honey. He’sde only fren’ we’sgot now.” True, Win- 
nie felt it in the depths of her sorrowful young heart, and 
turned away to hide her trouble from all other eyes, even 
the most kindly. 

An hour later, she came down stairs, fearing her mother 
might miss her, and call for her. She had tried to wash away 
the traces of tears from her face and came into her mother’s 
room hoping she would notice nothing, but it is so hard for 
the young to dissemble ; — so hard for them to carry a 
bright face above an aching heart. 

The quick eye of maternal love saw at once the white 
cheeks and swollen eyelids and the mother’s ear detected 
the quiver in the voice that tried to bid her a cheerful good 
morning. ” What is wrong my darling she asked. 

The tender question brought an uncontrollable burst of 
tears. “Oh mamma,” she sobbed, “you know as well as 
I.” The moment the words were uttered she would have 
given anything to recall them, but it was too late. The 
mother’s pale face grew a shade whiter, and for the first 
time in her life, Winnie saw her faint quite away. The 
fright and distress this caused made her forget the other 
trouble entirely for the time. There were plenty of restora- 
tives at hand, and Shrinking instinctively from calling any 


In the Toils. 


279 


one to witness a sorrow she felt they must both henceforth 
hide, the young girl did her best to bring her mother back 
to consciousness unaided. In a little while she had the 
happiness of seeing her open her eyes. “ Mother darling 
are you better ? Oh I am so glad,” she cried with the quick 
revulsion of feeling that of which only youth is capable. “I am 
better, love. Lock the door and sit down by me.” 

When Winnie was seated, her mother, holding fast the 
strong, young hand, as though it was her only stay in life, said 
slowly : 

‘‘My daughter, a great sorrow has a fallen on us, but it 
need not crush us, for ‘ The Eternal God is our refuge, and 
underneath us are the Everlasting Arms.’ Life is short, and 
in a little while this great grief will be to me as though it 
had never been. You are young and God is good. He 
will see to it that this trouble does not follow you through 
life. After to-day we will never speak of it except to Him. 
All I wish to say about it now is, do not think hardly of your 
father. He is in the power of wicked men, and they com- 
pel him to do as they wish. He loves you the same as ever, 
and his only hope in life is that you will not turn against 
him. It would add tenfold to my trouble if I thought you 
felt bitterly toward him. Promise me now that you will 
never say a word to wound him.” 

Winnie bent her head. She could not trust her voice- 

“Now, love, go to your own room. I want to be alone.” 

In the hall outside, Winnie met Aunt Eunice “Massa 
Wallace is at de gate,” she said frowning darkly. “ Will you 
go tell him he does’nt b’long hyar, or mus’ I ?’* 

“Neither of us. Auntie,” Winnie said firmly. “My 
mother does not wish any such word said.” 

“ You go 'long an’ meet him den. I washes my ban’s ob 
all ob it,” and Aunt Eunice quickened her steps toward 
the kitchen and shut the door violently. 


In the Toils. 


280 

“ Can’t sp’ose fur de life ob me what’s come ober Miss 
Esther,” she muttered, “ no more sperrit dan a pet kitten. 
Wish’t ole Massa Pryor wor alibe. Ole Massa 'ud make him 
Stan’ roun’. Should’nt wonder ef he’d gib him lead fur 
breakfus’, but deary me. Dere’s nobody hyar to tuk Miss 
Esther’s part.” 

Winnie, meantime, walked rapidly to the gate, fearful that 
her courage would fail. Was it her father who stood there 
She would not have known him except for the familiar dress. 
His face was haggard and colorless, his cheeks sunken, and 
his eyes downcast. “ Good morning papa,” she said, hold- 
ing out her hand. She had conquered herself so far that 
only a little tremor in her voice showed what she had pass- 
ed through. 

“ Good morning, Winnie. I have heard that your mother 
is sick. Will you tell me how she is?” 

“Better, I think. Will you come in ?” 

The blood rushed into his pale face. “Does your mother 
wish it ?” — he asked. 

“ She does not know you are here but I will tell her. Come 
with me.” 

“ No, Winnie,” he said sadly. “ I have no right to come 
one step farther unless your mother sends for me.” 

Without another word, Winnie turned and hurried into 
the house. It seemed to the wretched man standing at 
the gate that she was gone a long time, but in reality it 
was not more than five minute§ before she returned, and" 
saying only ; “ Come ! mamma wishes to see you,” led the way 
into the house and to her mother’s room and left him there 
What words were spoken in that mv/St painful meeting it is 
not for us to record. We have to do only with what Wal- 
lace said as he took his leave : - 

“ It will be safer for you and Winnie, safer for the whole 
household if I am sometimes seen to come here, and perhaps 


In the Toils. 


281 


for Winnie’s sake we both ought to forget our own feelings so 
far. If it is not asking too much I would beg leave dine here 
sometimes when in town. It will cost you much pain, I 
know ; — I have no right to speak of my own feelings, — but 
for the sake of one dear to both of us, will you consent 
to this?” 

“ For the child’s sake.” As we have said before, this is 
the key to much which is otherwise incomprehensible in 
Utah; — the only explanation of what seems voluntary 
slavery and degradation on the part of hundreds of women 
born to a better life. For the sake of Winnie’s safety father 
and mother endured what was equal torture to both, and 
on every alternate Sabbath, Wallace rode into town and 
dined with his family, and Mormon gossips spoke of Mrs. 
Wallace as “ reconciled” to her husband’s second marriage. 
Happily for her this gossip never reached her ears. Winnie 
heard a word or two, sometimes, but wisely kept silence. 


PART II. — Chapter vm, 

THE ABDUCTION OF WINNIE — SUSPENSE. GENERAL CON- 
NOR’S AID. — THE RESCUE. — THE RETURN. AFTER MANY 

DAYS. 

A little more than six months after the events recorded in 
our lazt chapter, Wallace on taking his leave of the family 
after one of his Sunday visits left a folded paper in his wife's 
hand. As soon as she was alone she opened it and read: 

“ Watch Winnie carefully. Don’t let her go outside the gate alone^ 
Don’t leave her at home alone for an hour. A danger that I cannot 
explain threatens her, and I, alas, cannot protect her. ” 

Here v/as a new and terrible anxiety. Winnie threatened 
with a mysterious calamity, which the utmost watchfulness 
might fail to avert. Months before, Esther had left her 
own room below stairs to share Winnie's bed. Jem and 
Aunt Eunice slept on the first floor, and a powerful St. Bern- 
ard dog, the strongest ally of the unprotected family, always 
had his quarters for the night on the rug outside Winnie’s 
door. Mother and daughter went out together in the day- 
time, taking the dog with them. After dark none of the 
family except Jem ever left the house. 

The reader may again need to be reminded that we are 
writing history, not fiction. We are portraying one instance 
among hundreds of the Reign of Terror which endured for a 
quarter of a century under the shadow of the American flag 
and which is not altogether abolished in the Year of Grace, 
One Thousand Eight Hundred and Seventy-Nine. 


In the Toils. 


283 


To return to our story. About ten days after Mrs. Wal- 
lace received the warning mentioned above, she was sent for 
one afternoon to see a child sick with the scarlet fever. 
The child’s mother was a poor widow largely indebted al- 
ready to Esther’s charity, and she thought nothing of being 
sent for by her in this fresh trouble; so putting on her bonnet 
hastily and telling Winnie she would be back in a few min- 
utes, she went out leaving Aunt Eunice in charge of the 
house. It was baking day, and the latter was unusually busy 
in the kitchen, but mindful of her charge she called to Winnie 
who was in the front yard. 

“Better go in the house, honey.” 

“In a minute Auntie, I just want to get a few of these 
early violets.” 

As Winnie stooped to gather the flowers a light canvas- 
covered spring wagon drove up and a young man sprang out 
He carried a shawl hanging on his arm and held a letter in 
his hand. “Does Mrs. Wallace livchere.^”he asked. “She 
does,” was the answer. “Well, I have a letter for her,” 
and he advanced a step or two up the walk leaving the gate 
open behind him. Winnie went toward him and held out 
her hand for the letter but as she was in the act of taking it 
from him, the shawl was thrown over her head, and in less 
time than it takes to record it, she was lifted from her feet, 
carried through the gate and forced into the wagon with the 
help of someone inside. She uttered a single half-stifled 
cry as the shawl was thrown over her. That cry brought 
Aunt Eunice from the house just in time to see her lifted 
into the wagon. The sight paralyzed her for one moment 
The next, with a wild shriek for help, she darted after the 
wagon which was already driving away at a furious speed. 

Aunt Eunice was past sixty, but love gave wings to her feet, 
and she ran for more than a block so fast as to keep the wagon 
in sight. When it disappeared she sank down helplessly and 


384 


In the Toils. 


prayed: “Dear Lord Good Lord, let me die now, I*se done 
let dat lamb be carried off by de wolves right before dese eyes. 

I can't go back to Miss Esther no more. How kin I stan’ 
up an’ bear her ax* whar's my chile.' You knows Lord I 
can't do dat." Then a vision of her mistress perhaps exposed 
to the same fate, rose up before her, and she hastened 
back to the empty house almost expecting to see her “Miss 
Esther" struggling in the hands of kidnappers. 

The gate and the house were open as she had left them 
but in the neighboring houses every door and window was 
closed. No one looked out; no notice seemed to have been 
taken of what had happened. 

The counsel of the Priesthood, “mind your own business 
and ask no questions" was well obeyed in Zion. 

Aunt Eunice sat down on the steps of the porch, 
her ebony face actually gray with , anguish and fear. 
She rocked herself to and fro moaning: “ My lamb. 
My lamb. Oh ef yer pore ole Auntie could only a’ died 
to sabe you. Ef de good Lord would only let me die now 
an’ bring you back. " 

In the midst of her lamentations Esther came up 
the walk with hurried steps. “ Auntie " she cried as 
soon as she saw her, “Mrs. Boyd did not send for 
me. There is something wrong. Where is Winnie.^ " 
Aunt Eunice fell on the ground and grovelled at her feet. 

“Don’t ax me, Miss Esther, don’t look at me so, I couldn't 
sabe her. Dey carried her off right before dese eyes. '» 

“ They ! Who ? Speak quickly ! " 

I don’t know honey. Thar was a wagon an* two men. You 
hadn’t been gone a minnit when I called her to come inter 
de house. She said yes, an I went back in de kitchen. Den 
I heerd a kind ob cry an’ run out, an' dere was a wagon an 
two men a liftin’ her in. I screeched fur help an’ run after de 


In the Toils. 285 

waggin till it wor out ob sight. Oh, Miss Esther, honey 
you doesn’t blame me ? " 

“ No, get up. Some one must go for her father at once. 
Where is Jem?” 

“Ain’t back from de blacksmith’s yet. No, dere he comes 
now,” as Jem appeared at the side gate, riding one horse 
and leading the other. His mistress called him to her. 

“Jem, take the horse that is saddled and ride at once 
to the farm. Tell Mr. Wallace that Winnie is gone. 
Carried off. Dont speak,” — as Jem endeavored to express 
his astonishment, — “and don’t stop at the farm. Go from 
there to Camp Douglass. Tell General Connor I wish to 
see him at once on important business.” * 

Jem waited for no second bidding. Leaving the other 
horse loose in the yard, he sprang into the saddle and was 
out of sight. 

The two women in the solitary house, left to the watching 
and waiting that falls to woman’s lot through hours 
of intolerable anguish and suspense, could do nothing but 
pray that help might come quickly. 

The sun was but two hours high in the west when Jem 
started. It was late in the afternoon when Mrs. Wallace 
left the house and though she was not gone half an hour 
that delay and the few minutes occupied in giving Jem his 
instructions allowed the kidnappers sufficient start to make 
it impqssible to overtake them unless they stopped some- 
where during the night, and of course their route could 
only be conjectured. 

The stars were beginning to show themselves when Jem 
stopped his hard - ridden horse at the gate and dismounted. 

With a caution born of his experiences in the past he 

• One incident of ihe past few j ears which should have been noted elsewhere 
was the establishment of a military post near Salt Lake. The small body 
of federal troops qua itered there did their best to afford protection to non- 
Mormons but official red tape, made it difficult for them to afford assis- 
tance in most cases. 


9S6 


In the Toils. 


led his horse to the stable and went quietly to the back 
door as though returning from ordinary business. The two 
anxious watchers inside met him at the same moment and 
he answered their unspoken question in a whisper. 

“ Mr. Wallace is away. Went North five days ago. Will 
be back the day after to-morrow. General Connor will be 
here in an hour. But I have better news. I met Harris 
at the cross-roads and he gave me this. ” He handed his 
mistress a crumpled note, written in pencil. She unfolded 
it and read: 

Mrs. Wallace: 

I know where your daughter is, No harm will come to her for the 
present. To-morrow night at midnight let Jem meet me at the mouth 
of Big Cottonwood Caynon. He must come alone and ride a horse 
that will carry double. Be up and waiting at home, but don’t show 
a light and if God helps me, before sunrise the next morning your 
daughter shall be with you. 

Harris. 

“ You say Harris gave this to you yourself?” she asked 
“Yes. He was coming here when I met him. He tore 
a leaf from his pocket-book and wrote this, sitting in his 
saddle/’ 

“ We can trust Harris and you, too, Jem.” 

“ Mrs. Wallace, you saved my life, and I would give it 
back to-night to help you. ” 

“I know it. ” 

At this moment there was a loud and startling ring at 
the front door “General Connor I think” said Jem 
“ but I’ll make sure before unlocking. ” 

A look through an aperture in the hall shutters dispelled 
all doubt, and a minute afterwards Jem ushered a gentleman 
into the parlor whose uniform was the most welcome sight 
which had greeted that household for many a day, for it 
promised protection in the name of the great government 
whose badge of service it was. 


In the Toils. 287 

“ I have the pleasure of addressing Mrs. Wallace ? ” he 
said rising and bowing, 

“Yes General I have taken the liberty of sending for you 
because we are in great trouble and need help. ” 

“ I am at your service Madam, and I have not come 
alone. I have half-a-dozen men at the gate, all well armed. 
Will you tell me just what has happened ? ” 

Mrs. Wallace detailed the events of the afternoon just as 
rapidly as possible, and ended by giving him the note just 
received. 

He scanned it attentively. 

“You know the writer of this? ** he said at length. 

“ Yes.* 

“ Can you trust him ? ** 

“ Implicitly. *’ 

“Well, then I think we see light ahead. Do your sus- 
picions point to any one person as the author of this out- 
rage? “ 

“ Yes. I more than suspect, I am almost certain that a 
man named Harwood, a Mormon elder, who has been our 
evil genius for ten years past is the principal actor ; at least 
he is the author of it. ** 

“ I know the fellow. A villian by nature and a brigand 
by profession. I would like to get just one good shot at 
him. *’ 

Mrs. Wallace smiled faintly at the thought of the cautious 
Harwood, whose valor consisted in always sending others 
to the front, exposing himself to Federal bullets, and the 
General continued : . 

“ This Harris most probably knows the country 
better than we do, and has a far greater advantage 
in being acquainted with the place to which your daught- 
er has been taken, so it may be best to leave the res- 
cue altogether to him ; still I think I will contrive some 


988 


In ths Toils. 


errand for a dozen of my men that will oblige them to pass 
the mouth of the canyon near the hour named. It will do 
no harm to have them within call and I will instruct your 
man how to summon them if he needs help. ” 

“ I hope lhat no such necessity will occur, but I shall be 
relieved of much anxiety if I know that help is near. Our 
lives here, as you must know, are passed in a state of con- 
tinual apprehension. 

“I do know, and I think. Mrs, Wallace, that after 
the occurences of today, you are no longer even par- 
tially safe here. My advice, which I hope you will accept, 
is thatyou remove at once with your family to Camp Douglass. 
Quite a large number of families in similar circumstances 
have already taken refuge there and a number of our 
officers have their wives with them. We will give you the 
best quarters at our disposal, with room for your servants 
and storage for your goods. ” 

“ Your offer is a kind one, and if my daughter is restored to 
me I shall accept it at once, for I shall not feel that we are 
safe for an hour here. ” 

“ I am very glad to hear your decision. Can I offer you 
any assistance in removing your effects 

“ I do not think we shall need any. We will only take such 
things as we are obliged to. The house and its contents 
will be safe enough in care of my tenant. I am not troubled 
about that nor about anything except my child. If I allow 
my mind to dwell upon her situation to-night I shall be in- 
capable of doing anything to help her. ” 

“ Try to think hopefully of her. You have the assurance 
of one who seems to know, that no present harm will come 
to her, and in a little more than twenty-four hours she 
will be under your own roof. ” 

^ I believe so, for I trust in God. ** 

The General bowed his head. “ Madam, I honor and 


^ In the Toils. 289 

at the same time envy your faith. Can I be of any farther 
service to-night. ” 

“ I think not. We will not be molested at present; at 
least I apprehend nothing and if Winnie is saved, we will 
remove to camp at an early hour the next morning, ” 

With renewed offers of service the General took his leave, 
and the household retired, the mother to spend the night in 
prayer. Aunt Eunice to indulge freely in lamentations and 
self reproaches, and Jem in spite of his real grief and anxiety, 
to find the sleep that comes so easily to the young. 

The longest night will wear toward morning, the saddest 
day must come to a close, and though the hours seemed end- 
less they passed one by one until at length the clock struck 
nine on the evening of the next day. This was the time 
agreed upon for Jem to start. Brown Bess, the favorite of 
her young mistress was saddled and waiting. They all 
knew they could depend upon her fleetness and intelligence. 

“ If ” said Jem, “ I should be forced to get down and stop 
any one who followed us, the mare would find her way home 
at the top of her speed ; and Miss Winnie knows how to 
ride. 

“ I hope no such thing will happen, Jem. What arms have 
you ?” Jem threw open his coat and showed a heavy navy 
revolver and a knife. 

“ I pray that you may not need to use them, but if you do ?” 

“ I won't waste powder. I’ll fire to kill, if any man 
tries to stop us." 

Jem did not wait to see how this was received, but hur- 
ried out, sprang into the saddle and was gone. 

The mouth of the canyon was about twelve miles distant. 
He had ample time, and rode slowly, to save the speed of his 
horse for the return. There was no moon, and passing 
clouds lessened the faint starlight, ‘but Jem knew every 
inch of the way and so did Brown Bess. 


190 


In ths Toils. 


He had ridden about a mile out of town when he heard a 
pattering sound on the hard roadway, and looking down saw 
that Bruno, Winnie s faithful St. Bernard, had constituted him- 
self one of the party. “Hi ! Bruno, my boy, why did you not 
stay to take care of them at home ?” he said. 

The dog answered by a low whine and kept on close be* 
side the horse. 

“ Well, old fellow, you know best. Maybe we shall need 
you with us to-night.’* 

Jem always maintained stoutly that Bruno knew more 
than half the men in the Territory, and now he said to 
himself that if the dog had not the best of reasons for doing 
so, he would never have left the house unguarded to follow 
him. 

It was near midnight before Jem, riding at the leisurely 
pace he had adopted, reached the mouth of the canyon. 
The entrance to the narrow defile was guarded on either 
side by large masses of rock that looked in the dim light, 
like castles and fortresses. Behind one of these Jem reined 
his horse and waited for the signal agreed upon. Before 
many minutes he heard it, — a long low whistle three times 
repeated. He answered it, and almost directly a horse bear- 
ing two riders emerged from the canyon. Jem, after one 
cautious glance from his hiding place, came out and met 
them. 

“Just in time my good fellow,” said Harris, “ Well for 
all of us that we did’nt have to wait for you.” 

In less than five minutes Winnie was transferred to the 
pillion behind Jem’s saddle. “ Ride for your lives. 
You will be followed,” Harris said as he swung himself up- 
on his own horse. 

. Jem needed no urging, nor for that matter did Brown 
Bess. Her hoofs struck sparks of fire from the stony road- 


In the Toils. 


f9i 

bed as she galloped homeward, making no account of the 
added weight sh^ carried. They were already well out of 
the shadow of the mountain and near the point where the 
roads leading to the city and to Camp Douglass inter- 
sected each other, when Jem’s quick ear detected a sound 
which made him lay his hands on his weapons. 

They were ifollowed, as Harris had warned them. Their 
pursuer gained on them. By the time they reached the 
cross-roads he was in plain sight. “Halt!” he called. 

No answer. 

There was a flash, a report, and a bullet wljizzed past 
their heads. 

Jem returned the fire without slackening speed. 

Bess strained every nerve and still the horseman gained 
on them. 

“ We are lost,” was Winnie’s despairing thought, when 
help came from an unexpected quarter. 

Bruno, left a little behind in their rapid flight, made a 
fierce spring at the horse’s head and caught the bridle in 
his teeth, close to the bit. 

The horse stumbled and fell, throwing his rider forward. 

The man sprang up. The horse did not rise, Bruno, 
dragged down in his fall lay partly under him. The dis- 
comfitted rider, muttering a deep curse, discharged his 
pistol a second time, not at the fugitives, now out of his 
reach, but at the faithful animal that had saved them. As 
the report died away, another sound was borne on the 
breeze, — one most unwelcome to the midnight marauder. 

It was a clattering of hoofs giving notice of approach of 
a body of horsemen, and in a minute more, around a bend 
of the road leading from the South, a dozen armed men came 
in sight. The starlight, faint as it was, showed plainly what 
they were, — a squad of cavalry returning to camp. Har- 


igi 


In the Toils. 


wood, for the dismounted horseman was no other, believed 
with Hudibras that 

He who fights and runt away 
May live to fight another day. 

It was the principle to which he owed most of his past 
success, and now, without waiting to be interviewed by the 
the new-comers, he slipped behind the nearest boulder, 
lowered himself thence into a gully, cut by the spring 
freshets, and following Jts bed made his safe and silent way 
back to the foot-hills. 

The o®cer in command of the approaching squad 
quickened the speed of his men at the sound of pistol-shots. * 
He had his private instructions from General Connor, and 
now feared he was too late at the scene of action. 

A dark object lying across the road was the first thing that 
met his view. He turned the slide of a dark lantern at his 
saddle-bow so that a single ray fell upon it. 

“A horse ! Get down Saunders and see what is the matter. 
Here, take the light.” 

The man dismounted and after a hasty examination re- 
ported : 

“ The horse has both his knees broken. Captain. There 
is a dog, too — shot through the head.” 

“Well, put the horse out of his misery, while we look 
for the rider.” 

As the reader knows, the rider was by this time safe from 
their search but a close examination of the road, the tracks 
behind the fallen horse and those in front gave a clue 
to the facts. “Nobody hurt” was the Captain’s final ver- 
dict. “There is no sign of any struggle and no blood in 
sight except that of the dog. That was a noble beast;” he 
added looking down upon the horse, “and the man that rode 
him deserved to be shot for leaving him to suffer, unless he 


In the Toils. 


*93 

had uncommon good reasons for getting out of the way in a 
hurry,” 

“Shan't we take the saddle Captain?” asked one of the 
men. “It might be useful in case that chap’s friends should 
come round inquiring for him.” 

“Yes, take it. If the owner wants it he can advertise for 
it.” 

By the time Captain McKay and his men reached camp, 
Winnie was safe in her mothers arms. 

Safe for the time, but neither mother nor daughter was 
willing to risk remaining another night in the city, and be- 
fore noon the next day, General Connor received them at 
Camp Douglass. 

»**«*•«««« 

It is the month of June 1867, just eleven years from the 
ill-fated day when Esther Wallace and her daughter stepped 
on board the Western bound train that carried them from 
their home. Camp Douglass has become almost a city, so 
great is the number of refugees who have flocked to it to es- 
cape from Mormon tyranny and from the knife and bullet 
of the red-handed Danites — Brigham Young’s Destroying 
Angels. Most of these refugees would gladly return to the 
States if they could, and orders have at length been issued for 
a military escort to protect such as are ready to undertake the. 
journey across the plains. On the morning of which we 
write, a long train of more than fifty wagons, some loaded 
with supplies, others carrying passengers with their baggage, 
formed in line on the road leading out of the military reser- 
vation. Mrs. Wallace and Winnie are there, occupying the 
same carriage that brought them to the Territory, and with 
them is Theresa St. Clair. The two stalwart young men 
on horseback are her sons. Jem holds the reins that his 
mistress would not think of entrusting to other hands, and 
Aunt Eunice sits beside him and shakes her turbaned head 


294 


In the Toils. 


solemnly as she points downward toward the city they are 
leaving. 

“Sodom an Gormorrer! Dat’s wat dey is. Sure's de 
sun shines dis bressed mornin*, dere's a cloud o' fire an' 
brimstun gwine to bust ober dar. 'Pears like de Lord wor 
jest awaitin' for us to 'scape outen de valley." 

“After Many Days." 

Time, September, 1870. Place, a little village nestled 
between the mountain and the river-bank, on the west side 
of the Hudson. Voyagers up and down that river know 
how many nooks, just large enough to hold a cluster of cot- 
tages, can be found on either shore along the base of the moun- 
tains that slope down to the water’s edge. In one of these 
nooks, no matter which, and in the very prettiest cottage of 
the group, two ladies sat sewing in a cosy morning-room 
overlooking the river. 

“Oh mamma*' said the younger of the two, “there comes 
the morning boat from New YorkP’ 

“Winnie dear" said the elder lady smiling, “I shall have 
to put short frocks on you again. You are so enthusiastic 
over the boats, our neighbors will not believe you more 
than ten years old." 

“Well mamma, you know I never saw one till I was twen- 
ty; I mean one like these." 

At this moment the door-bell rang and the young lady, 
with the slightest perceptible hightening of color, began to 
sew again industriously; 

A trim serving-maid appeared directly and ushered in a 
gentleman of about thirty, who was welcomed as Dr. 
Brownell. 

“Always busy, Mrs. Wallace, and you too. Miss Winnie, ” 
he said after the first salutation, “ but I know when I see 
you at work, that somebody is going to receive substantial 


In thk Toils. 


*95 


benefit. I have just come from ray patient at Hemlock 
Creek, and I think I could guess who made the new clothes 
the poor woman's children have on ; — at least I have a 
recollection of seeing the pattern of the goods before. ” 

“ You must be very observing,’* said Winnie laughing, 
‘ and I wish you would exercise your gift in that respect for 
my benefit just now and tell me who lands from the steam- 
boat. Mamma won't let me go down and find out for my- 
self.** 

The doctor looked out of the window and reported : 

** One fat woman with a bundle, three children and a 
young man in a blue blouse. ** 

‘‘Anybody else? ** 

“ No — stop — I see a tall gentleman in a gray traveling 
cloak and felt hat. He stoops slightly. Has a cane and 
walks slowly. I should say he is either ill or quite aged. ” 
Why was it that such a sudden pallor overspread the elder 
woman’s face; — that her heart throbbed so for a moment? 
She could not tell herself. She sat silent, scarcely hearing the 
lively, bantering words of her daughter, who was now asking 
the doctor for a description of something on the other side 
of the 'river. The windows of the room did not afford 
a view of the road leading to the front of the house 
and when the shrubbery hid the few passengers just landing 
from view, the doctor and Winnie found something else to 
talk about. 

They were interrupted by the ringing of the bell. This 
time when Jane made her appearance she announced : 

“ A gentleman inquiring for Mrs. Wallace. ** 

“ Where is he Jane ? ** 

“ In the parlor. He said he would wait at the door, but 
I brought him in. He seemed ill. ’* 

Mrs. Wallace had already risen to go to her visitor. She 
stopped, overcome again by an agitation for which she 


296 


In the Toils. 


could not account. In a moment she recovered her com- 
posure and walked quietly out to the parlor. 

“ I wonder who mamma’s mysterious visitor can be, ” 
said Winnie. The words were scarcely spoken when they 
heard a cry, a fall, and in the same instant her mother’s 
voice calling them. They hurried into the parlor; Mrs. 
Wallace was kneeling on the floor beside the figure of a 
man, recognized by the doctor as the tall stranger just 
landed from the boat. His face was ghastly and a 
stream of blood which Mrs. Wallace vainly tried to staunch 
flowed from his mouth. Winnie gave a startled scream 
then a second glance. “ Papa ” she cried and dropped 
down beside her mother. 

Dr. Brownell did a much more sensible thing ; — drew 
his medicine case from his pocket and taking Winnie by the 
.arm ordered her, almost sharply, to go for water. In a 
little while the remedies, so providentially at hand checked 
the flow of blood and restored the sick man to partial con- 
sciousness. His eyes wandered vacantly around until they 
rested on the face that bent over him ; — then, as in that 
other sickness long ago he said, faintly : “ At home ? 

Thank God! ” and closed his eyes again. % 

He must be got to bed directly, ** said the doctor. “ If 
your man Jem is at home let him come in and help me.” 

Winnie went herself to summon the needed help, and Jem, 
too much astonished to ask any questions, carried his old 
master into the next room and with the doctor’s help un- 
dressed him and made him cgmfortable in bed. 

“ I have done all I can do at present, ” Dr. Brownell said 
as he returned to the parlor, “ I will come in again this 
afternoon, and in the meantime he must have perfect quiet. 
Let only one person sit with him and do not allow him to 
talk. The least excitment may bring on the hemorrhage. ” 

“ I will sit with him. " 


In the Toils. 


297 


Mrs. Wallace spoke as calmly as though the patient were 
a stranger. 

“We are much indebted to you, doctor. You will be 
certain to come early ? “ 

“ I will not fail. “ 

Mrs. Wallace entered the bed-room, closing the door 
behind her. 

Winnie looked up. “Dr. Brownell, “ she said, “You 
know something of our unhappy history and will not wonder 
at anything you have seen or heard to-day. I am so thank- 
ful that it was you and not a stranger who happened to be 
present. “ 

“ It is I who should be thankful for the privilege of serv- 
ing you. The tone in which he spoke these commonplace 
words, brought the color into Winnie's pale face, but she 
only answered : 

“ You can serve us in more ways than one. I am certain 
we can reply on you to protect us from gossip which would 
be very painful just now. " 

“ There is nothing in my power to do for you which you 
cannot reply on me for. “ 

And having had the satisfaction of watching the effect of 
his words a second time, the doctor took his leave, repeating 
his promise to call early in the afternoon. 

Two or three days passed and the sick man improved so 
far as to be able to sit up. 

The doctor removed his interdict regarding conversation^ 
only sipulating that his patient should not be excited. 

This stipulaton was not likely to be disregarded by his 
wife who sat beside him outwardly as calm as though noth- 
ing had disturbed the smooth current of their lives, or by the 
daughter who, controlled by her mother, looked and spoke 
as* though they had never been separated. 

Thus far, the only allusion made by either of them to the 


298 


In the Toils. 


shadow that darkened this pathway was when Wallace first 
grew strong enough to speak. 

It was night and waking from a brief slumber he saw his 
wife watching beside his pillows. “ Esther, he said, 
bringing out the words with a slow, painful utterance: “ I 
have come home to die. You will not send me away.^ ” 

For answer, she took his wasted hands, in both of her's 
and repeated solemnly ; 

“ God do so unto me and more also, if aught but death 
part thee and me. ” 

Since the end was so near, why not let the dark past be 
as though it had never been ! Esther saw in the dying man 
only the husband of her youth, the father of her children. 
The face of the fair-haired baby that slept under the violetsi 
that face so like the father s own, rose up before her when- 
ever her eyes fell upon that other face lying so white and 
wasted on the pillow. 

The sad violet eyes had in them the look which had fol- 
lowed her so many years ; — the piteous, appealing look with 
which her baby made his mute plea for help when struggling 
with the destroyer. 

She asked no questions about the intervening years; 
— would listen to no self-acusations from those white lips. 
The one thing that gave her disquiet, the only thing about 
which she wished to hear him speak, was the false faith, 
whose blighting power she hoped was forever broken. 
Was it so ? Had the wanderer come to himself and found 
his way back to his father’s house ? How should she learn 
and yet keep the promise that nothing should be allowed to 
disturb him ? 

She was pondering this one bright afternoon when he was 
so much better that he asked to be moved to the windows 
overlooking the river. » 

His eyes wandered up and down over the autumn land- 


In thx Toils. 


*99 


scape, so unlike anything he had seen for years. The 
river-bank was a bewildering maze of orange and scarlet, of 
deep crimson and pale yellow, broken here and there by the 
dark green of a clump of cedars. He sat a long time silent: 
At length, pointing to a group of trees beyond the lawn 
he said : 

“ What a vivid color those trees have ! It seems as though 
I never knew before what crimson and scarlet meant. ” 

Then turning his head slqwly and facing her : 

“ Esther, there were years when I could not bear to look 
on those colors, — you know why, — but now there is one 
verse of holy scripture that is above all price to me. 
‘Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be white as snow ; 
though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool,* — 
and there is another, — one that has saved me from despair, 
‘Father, forgive them. They know not what they do.’ 
Esther, — wife — there were many years when I knew not 
what I did. ” 

She took his hands in hers. For his sake she must be 
calm, but in spite of every effort her eyes filled and her 
voice trembled as she answered : 

“ I know that and surely God knows. If I am so glad to 
have you here at home, think how glad He is that you have 
come home to Him. ** 

There was a moment of silence, then Wallace said: 

“ Since I have been lying here so helpless, how thankful 
I have been that in my childhood I learned so many chap- 
ters of the Holy Book by heart. I have not dared to open 
it for years, but now the story of the prodigal who came 
home and was received so joyfully, and of the good Shep- 
herd who went out into the mountains seeking his lost 
sheep, come back to me as though I had read them yester- 
day. 

They talked freely of the past and of the future and the 


300 


In thb Toils. 


pale face of the invalid grew so much calmer and brighter 
that Winnie said to Dr. Brownell : 

“ Surely papa is better. ” 

The doctor looked grave. “ Do you want me to tell you 
the truth ? ** 

“Yes, ” 

“ I have tried to be candid with all of you from the first. 
There is not the shadow of a hope that your father will 
recover. With such care as he has, he may last a month 
but even that is doubtful. ” 

Winnie’s tears fell fast. 

“ Does my mother know ? ** she asked. 

“ Yes. She has known all along.” 

** Does papa know it himself ? ” 

“ He does. And if you could realize how glad he is to 
be so near the end of all strife and unrest, you would 
rejoice with him.” 

The days grew into weeks. The weather had become 
much colder, and the sick man no longer left his bed. The 
end was not far off. It came one wild November night 
when the rain beat against the windows, and fierce gusts 
shook the leafless branches of the trees outside. 

Wife and daughter, one on either side watched every 
change in the beloved face. The servants who had shared 
their changing fortune so many years, stood at the foot of 
the bed. The doctor sat beside the dying man s pillow. 

He looked from one to the other. “ God is so good,’ 
he said, “ so much better than my deserts, so much better 
than my fears. He lets me die at home.” He closed his* 
eyes and murmured indistinctly. His mind seemed 
wandering among the scenes of his boyhood. All at once 
a bright smile illumined his face. He held out his arms 
and said, “ Arthur ! Papa’s boy ! Come to papa, darling ! ” 

Then sinking back he slept again. 


In the Toils. 


301 

Rousing after a few minutes, he fixed his eyes on his 
wife’s face with a clear, conscious look. 

“ Esther,” he said, “ I thought I saw our baby — little 
Arthur. He held out his hands just as he used to, and was 
so glad to see me. I know he will be glad.” Winnie’s sobs 
made him turn towards her. 

” Winnie, darling, come closer. Say good-bye to papa. 
Papa always loved his little daughter. Esther, beloved, it 
grows dark but I see your face yet.” 

There was a single deep drawn breath ; — his head fell 
back upon his wife’s bosom, and there was silence. 

The storm-tossed soul had reached the desired haven. 


The Bmdi 




The treatment of many thousands of 
cases of those chronic weaknesses and 
distressing- ailments peculiar to females, 
at the Invalids’ Hotel and Surgical In- 
stitute, Buffalo, N. Y., has afforded a 
vast experience in nicely adapting and 
thoroughly testing remedies for the 
cure of woman’s peculiar maladies. 

Dr. Pierce’s Favorite Prescrip- 
tion is the outgrowth, or result, of this 
great and valuable experience. Thou- 
sands of testimonials received from pa- 
tients and from physicians who have 
tested it in the more aggravated and 
obstinate cases which had baffled their 
skill, prove it to be the most wonderful 
remedy ever devised for the relief and 
cure of suffering women. It is not re- 
commended as a “cure-all,” but as a 
most perfect Specitio for woman’s 
peculiar ailments. 

As a powerful, invigorating 
tonic it imparts strength to the whole 
system, and to the uterus, or womb and 
its appendages, in particular. For over- 
worked, “worn-out,” “run-down,” de- 
bilitated teachers, milliners, dressmak- 
ers, seamstresses, “shop-girls,” house- 
keepers, nursing mothers, and feeble 
women generally. Dr. Pierce’s Favorite 
Prescrij)tion is the greatest earthly boon, 
being unequalled as an appetizing cor- 
dial and restorative tonic. It promotes 
digestion and assimilation of food, cures 
nausea, weakness of stomach, indiges- 
tion, bloating and eructations of gas. 

As a sootliiiig and streiigtlicn- 
Ing nervine, “ Favorite Prescription ” 
is unequalled and is invaluable in allay- 
ing and subduing nervous excitability, 
irritability, exhaustion, prostration, hys- 
teria, spasms and other distressing, nerv- 
ous symptoms commonly attendant upon 
functional and organic disease of the 
womb. It induces refreshing sleep and 
relieves mental anxiety and despond- 
ency. 

Dr. Pierce’s Favorite Prescrip- 
tion is a legitimate medicine, 

carefully compounded by an experienc- 
ed and skillful physician, and adapted 
to woman’s delicate organization. It is 
purely vegetable it its composition and 


perfectly harmless in its effects in any 
condition of the system. ^ 

-^Favorite Prescription” is a 
positive cure for the most compli- 
cated and obstinate cases of leucorrhea, 
or “ whites,” excessive tiowing at month- 
ly periods, painful menstruation, unnat^ 
ural suppressions, prolapsus or falling 
of the womb, weak back, “ female weak- 
ness,” ant eversion, retroversion, bearing- 
down sensations, chronic congestion, in- 
flammation and ulceration of the womb, 
inflammation, pain and tenderness in 
ovaries, accompanied with internal heat. 

Ill pregnancy, “ Favorite Prescrip- 
tion” is a “mother’s cordial,” relieving 
nausea, weakness of stomach and other 
distressing symptoms common to that 
condition. If its use is kept up in the 
latter months of gestation, it so prepar^^s 
the system for deliv^ery as to greatly 
lessen, and many times almost entirely 
do away with the sufferings of that try- 
ing ordeal. 

‘‘Favorite Prescription,” when 
taken in connection with the use of 
Dr. Pierce’s Golden Medical Discovery, 
and small laxative doses of Dr. Pierce’s 
Purgative Pellets (Little Liver Pills), 
cures Liver, Kidney and Bladder dis- 
eases. Their combined use also removes 
blood taints, and abolishes cancerous 
and scrofulous humors from the system. 

Treating tlie Wrong Disease.— 
Many times women call on their family 
physicians, suffering, as they iniagiae, 
one from dyspepsia, another from heart 
disease, another from liver or kidney 
disease, another from nervous exhaus- 
tion or prostration, another with pain 
here or there, and in this way they ail 
present alike to themselves and their 
easy-going and indifferent, or over-busy 
doctor, separate and distinct diseases, 
for which he prescribes his piUs and 
potions, assuming them to bv. such, 
when, in reality, they are all only symp- 
tnms caused by some womb disorder. 
The physician, ignorant of the cause of 
suffering, encourages his practice until 
large bills are made. The suffering pa^ 
tient gets no better, but probably worse 
by reason of the delay, wrong treatment 
and consequent complications. A prop)- 
er medicine, like Dr. Pierce’s Favorite 
Prescription, directed to the came would 
have entirely remo'‘'^ed the disease, there- 
by dispelling all those distressing symp- 
toms, and instituting comfort instead of 
prolonged misery. 

“Favorite Prescription” is the 

only medicine for women sold, by drug- 
gists, under a positive guarantee, 
from the manufacturers, that it will 
give satisfaction in every case, or money 
will be refunded. This guarantee has 
been printed on the bottle-wrapper, and 
faithfully carried out for many years. 
Farge bottles (1(X) doses) $1.00, or 
six bottles for $5.00. 

Send ten cents in stamps for Dr. 
Pierce’s large, illustrated Treatise (160 
pages) on Diseases of Women. Address, 
World’s Dispensary Medical Associationi 

> JJO, 668 MAJK bXBBKT, BUFFALO, N, K 







f 




V 


. 



\. 


■ -f 





9 




* 



• - 
< 4 

n’*. 


. • 


• k 


\ 


t 

yJt 


v''< 


« 

! 

I 


« 


,V . 

*■• - 




• ^ 
t 


\ '1 


V'- 


■ k 


- * 


# ' 

-n 


0 


i 









t 


a 





I ^ % 

VV\V«' 


7 V ' ^ 

^ r r/ fT*^\ ■ f I' ' * 

^ . Cv^. •^trv'.'- - *% -^'.. •. - 

? . . *x: ■ > 

^ * <.•••! 

^ A . . ^ * ■ 




'■*' ’--i''-*’ 


' .!< 




' < 


". iiN’ « ^ 


"'•rV, 


* ' ' ' ■ ' nA' 

» * j/** V', , ‘ ■/ 

-j c-i^V. A «W|jL , •.' ' ■ ' • . A . •- ^' * f • A.' ' *L3 

‘ .‘r»-‘- '0* ^ ^’ A ^ ‘ “J' SffSl •• * ‘^♦' V 

■ :■ ■• '■ ■ '•■' •’> V^«’ " ' ■ ' 


5^*a si* t 











4 

$ 





i 




0 




% 


• % 


/•v- 






£ 






• V 










« 4 




✓ 



» 


\ 


f.V- 4 - 

f <« 










■?•■ r* * 



:.’ * . '». I . . J , 


>tr* 

V' 


r. 



BtV, ^ • M 








il 


0 . 

<■• < 


*< 


\ _ 


r ’ 


( . '<• • A 

• ( 



> • - 


• t 


• I 


N * 


’V ■•''' / . 

• • • \ » * • *^ i' 

a; io‘ r>';?i';'- 


•'.VTV."’'-- 



/ 


I <■• 


f* ’ < %,‘f » • Y . * '^jmi 


V 
. f 


^ 't -u 
• r J 


> ' 
*• '• S 


\ ^ 
i 


> 


x> * ■ 


.*.• 


4 

A 






' I 


;4iA';';’; 



LWl 





- I 


j: ' 




>v . .' -‘■ ■* •' 


-p.::!. -f- 



W vL , '. 













LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 


